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FROM   THE   LIBRARY  OF 


REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,   D.  D. 


BEQUEATHED    BY   HIM   TO 


THE   LIBRARY   OF 


PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL   SEMINARY 


Section  {'t/'733 


POEMS 


WILLIAM    B.    TAP  PAN. 


VOL.  II. 


POEMS 


WILLIAM    B.    TAPPAN. 


VOL.  II. 


*# 


t/x?2 


'  //   PKi^L 


THE   Aj 


POEM 


OF 


l// 


WILLIAM    B.    TAPPAN, 


NOT  CONTAINED  IN  A  FORMER  VOLUME. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
HENRY  PERKINS CHESTNUT  STREET. 

boston: 
perkins  and  marvin. 

1836. 


48124 


Entered  according"  to  Act  of  CongTess,  in  the  year 
1836,  by  Henry  Perkins,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of 
the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of  Penn- 
sylvania. 


7".  dshmead  &  Co.  Pr inters. 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTICE. 


The  Publisher  of  "  The  Poems  of  Wil- 
liam B.  Tappan"  (in  1834,)  offers  the  Pub- 
lie  this  companion  to  that  volume;  em- 
bracing most  of  his  additional  pieces. 

The  admirers  of  two  well  known  living 
Poets  of  another  country,  will  be  gratified 
by  the  appropriate  introduction  here,  of 
extracts  from  their  correspondence  with 
the  author,  which  the  Publisher  has  solicit- 
ed for  insertion. 


VI 


From  James  Montgomery,  Esq.  Sheffield,  (Eng.) 

"  There  is  a  pleasure,  which  from  its  very 
nature  must  be  confined  to  a  few  privileged 
individuals,  and  that  is,  to  receive  tokens  of 
kindness  from  a  stranger  in  a  far  country, 
who  knows  the  person  whom  he  thus  visits 
in  spirit,  as  a  spirit  only;  with  whose  mind 
and  heart  he  has  become  acquainted  as 
they  may  have  been  shown  to  the  world 
in  his  writings,  or  have  attracted  the 
esteem  of  his  fellow  creatures  by  a  repu- 
tation, (whether  deserved  or  not,  is  not  the 
question  in  this  case)  for  some  great  or 
good  deed,  such  as  the  good  and  the  great 
themselves  love  to  honour.  To  the  former 
class, — those  wThose  minds  have  been  seen 
by  others  to  whom  their  bodies  are  invi- 
sible,— I  happen  to  belong,  and  therefore, 
within  the  last  thirty  years  especially,  have 
often  been  saluted  from  every  quarter  of 
the  four  winds  as  they  blow  over  the  Bri- 
tish Islands,  and  not  seldom  also  as  they 


Vll 

sweep  eastward  athwart  the  Atlantic,  by 
benevolent  and  Christian  individuals,  to 
whom  my  songs  of  sorrow,  or  of  joy,  of 
freedom,  or  of  faith,  and  hope  and  love, 
have  been  endeared  under  circumstances 
which  caused  those  peculiar  sympathies 
to  be  awakened  in  their  bosoms,  of  which 
the  prototypes  existed  in  my  own,  when  I 
found  words  to  give  them  utterance,  and 
powrer  of  truth  and  nature  enough  to  ensure 
them  an  entrance  and  a  welcome  wTherever 
kindred  souls  came  in  contact  with  my 
compositions.  You  have  very  agreeably 
added  one  to  the  number  of  those  who 
constitute  my  world  of  contemporary  spi- 
rits, yet  in  the  flesh,  but  to  me  known  only 
as  intelligences  with  whom  I  can  hold 
communion  of  thought,  and  interchange 
of  feeling,  without  the  probability,  or  the 
necessity,  of  personal  knowledge  in  this 
world,  though  with  a  hope,  not  irrational, 
nor  unfounded,  that  amidst  the  ages  of 
eternity  and  among  the  infinity  of  joys 


vm 


prepared  by  the  Redeemer  for  those  that 
love  Him,  we  shall  see  and  know  as  we 
are  known,  and  have  to  congratulate  each 
other  on  "glory,  honour  and  immortality," 
the  portion  of  the  blest  in  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  brighter,  nobler  and  more  excel- 
lent than  ever  wras  sought,  or  won,  or  en- 
tered into  the  imagination  to  conceive,  by 
those  who  gained  most  of  the  world,  and 
the  good  the  wrorld  has  to  give,  yet  found 
it  all  too  little  for  their  wants. 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  having  devoted, 
not  the  first  fruits  only,  but  I  may  say  the 
successive  harvests  of  your  Parnassus, 
not  to  the  fabled  Deity  and  the  ideal  God- 
desses that  were  said  of  old  to  rule  there, 
but  to  the  true  God,  and  to  His  glory,  in 
the  service  of  His  temple  and  His  people 
on  earth.  May  you  have  a  present  and 
future  reward  here,  and  an  eternal  one 
hereafter." 


IX 


From  James  Edmeston,  Esq.  London. 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  thought,  that  the 
English  Language  in  both  hemispheres 
is  more  honoured  than  any  other,  in 
extending  the  knowledge  and  showing 
forth  the  glory  of  God;  and  in  this  coun- 
try it  is  a  pleasing  sign  of  the  times,  that 
sacred  poetry  should  be  so  much  prized  in 
those  gay  and  noble  circles,  which  once 
could  tolerate  only  a  very  different  kind 
of  literature. — It  is  a  great  point  to  get  a 
hearing  for  Religion,  and  when  once  it 
catches  the  ear  and  is  listened  to,  it  speaks 
so  truly  to  the  heart,  that  man  will  gene- 
rally receive  it  as  the  consolation  and 
hope  which  of  all  things  he  most  re- 
quires. It  is  the  object  of  Satan  to  pre- 
vent this  acceptance,  to  keep  men  out  of 
the  way  of  hearing  or  of  reading ;  but  I 
always  find  that  the  music  of  sacred  poe- 
try is  a  powerful  attraction  to  a  cultivated 
mind,  and  hence  the  table  of  the  drawing 


room  may  now  often  be  observed  adorned 
with  volumes  of  sacred  poetry,  in  houses 
where  formerly  no  such  thing  was  to  be 
found. — It  is  to  me  a  very  proud  thought 
that  any  thing  which  I  have  written  has 
found  its  way  to  America." 


CONTENTS. 


The  Boatmen  of  the  West,  -         -        Page  17 

For  Spain,             20 

The  Infant  Orphan, 22 

War  not  with  France,                     ...  24 

Sympathy, 25 

Revival, 26 

What  is  it  cheers  the  aching  breast,     -         -  27 

Dedication, 28 

To  my  Father's  old  Bible,              ...  30 

Thy  Kingdom  Come,             -         -         -         -  33 

The  Hero's  Grave, 35 

The  Bar  Maid, 36 

Millennial  Morn,  thy  rosy  beams,           -         -  38 

Genesis,  v.  24, 39 

By  whom  of  all  thy  chosen,  Lord,  40 

The  Smile  in  Death, 41 

O  God,  this  Universal  Frame,  42 

Winter, 43 

When  the  shadows  of  death  shall  envelop  this  clay,  44 

Children's  Christmas  Verses,  45 

Men  that  go  down  in  Ships,  46 

December,            ------  47 

For  the  Deaf  and  Dumb,  48 

Retrospective, 49 

Worship, 51 

Bunyan's  Chair, 52 


Xll  CONTENTS. 

Is  it  well  with  the  Child,       -  Page  56 

New  York,  during  the  Pestilence  of  1822,    -  57 

Slavery, 58 

Song  of  Deborah  and  Barak,  59 

Oh  Mary,  take  this  brilliant  gem,           -         -  60 

Are  not  my  days  few,  60 

His  path  is  the  ocean,  he  maketh  his  dwelling,  62 

The  two  Pillars, 64 

Leave  thy  Fatherless  Children,              -        -  66 

Vespers, 67 

The  Deserter, 68 

The  Colombian  Flag,             ....  69 

Who  may  enter  Heaven,       -         ...  70 

The  Court  of  Death,  71 

The  Dying  Year, 72 

The  Mother's  Prayer,                               - .        -  74 

Fair  is  the  scene  when  the  mists  of  the  morning,  75 

To  whom  shall  we  go  but  to  Thee,  76 

A  Colloquy  of  Bethlehem,             ...  78 

When  yon  bright  orb  beneath  the  west,        -  79 

May,  1835, 80 

Song  of  the  Bible, 82 

The  Leveller, 86 

To  the  Missouri, 88 

Do.         do.                   89 

Song  of  Jacob  to  Rachel,      -         -         -         -  91 

She  may  not  die, 92 

O,  who  would  love  a  world  like  this,             -  93 

Lake  Erie,  Sept.  10,  1813,             ...  94 

Solitude, 95 

To  the  Sun,          - 97 

The  Connecticut, 99 


CONTENTS.  Xlll 

The  Withered  Leaf,     -  Page  100 

Mrs.  S.  D.  R. 102 

Children  of  the  Preceding-,            ...  103 

Miss  Amelia  C , 105 

William,  Howard  and  Eugene,      -         -         -  105 

I  sleep,  but  my  heart  waketh,       -         -         -  106 

New  England  Sketches,        ...         -  107 

Changes, 113 

The  Church, 115 

The  Grave, 118 

To  thee,  dear  Vision,  Genius  of  the  lyre,      -  119 

What  shall  satisfy  the  mind,          -  121 

The  Tomb  of  Jesus, 122 

Religion  and  Rum,        -----  124 

A  time  to  weep,  a  time  to  rejoice,         -         -  125 

The  Departed  Wife, 127 

The  Old  Soldier, 129 

The  Eucharist, ISO 

The  Unhallowed  Grave,  132 

The  Pirate  Ship, 134 

Thou  sleepest,  gentle  Boy,            -  .136 

Days  departed,  whither  fled,         -  137 

Frances, 140 

Saved  by  our  instrumentality,        -  141 

The  Bible  Ship, 143 

The  Bell  of  the  Revolution,          -         -         -  145 

To  a  Nun,             147 

The  Last  Drunkard, 149 

Miriam's  Song, 151 

The  Crown  of  Thorns,  152 

The  Church  is  there,             -         -         -         -  154 

Rev.  A J , 156 


XIV  CONTEXTS. 

To  the  Missionary  Students  at  Andover,     Page  157 

God  of  Judgment,  round  thy  throne,     -         -  160 

The  Men  of  Plymouth,         -  161 

Last  Words  of  Christ,            -         -         -         -  163 

Exhibition  of  the  Deaf  and  Dumb,        -         -  164 

The  Father  to  his  guilty  Son,       -         -         -  165 

Twenty-second  of  February,         -         -  167 

Song  of  the  500,000  Drunkards  in  the  U.  States,  168 

None  saved  by  my  care,        ...         -  170 

Apostrophe, 171 

To  the  Descendant  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers,  174 

For  my  Child's  Testament,            -         -         -  175 

A  recent  loss, 176 

The  Minstrels  of  Judah  have  gone  to  their  rest,  177 

Chains  for  the  neck  of  Beauty,     -  178 

The  Bible  Society,       -         -"       -         -         -  180 

Song  for  Thomas  Paine's  Birthday,       -         -  181 

The  Tender  Shepherd,         -         -         -         -  185 

The  Young  Convert,              -         -         -         -  186 

The  Duellist's  Honour,  188 

Winter  Woes, 189 

The  Eagle  on  his  mountain  height,       -         -  191 

A  Mother, 192 

Holiness  to  the  Lord,            -         -         -  194 

To  the  Comet, 196 

Winter  rules  the  closing  year,       -  198 

South  American  Hymn,        -  199 

The  foundering  barque  by  tempests  tost,      -  201 

The  Vision,          -         -     "    -         -         -         -  202 

To  the  Chinese  Lady,            -  203 

To  a  half-blown  Lily,                                         -  205 

Books  for  China, 206 


CONTENTS.  XV 

Gaze  thou  upon  a  fallen  world,     -         -      Page  206 

The  Petition, 209 

The  Lord  shall  gather  Jerusalem,         -         -  210 

The  Flag  of  the  Cross,          -  211 

The  Walk  from  Buffalo,                                   -  213 

Fall  on  us  and  hide  us,          -         -         -  227 

Mortimer  Brockway  and  Henry  Bond,          -  228 

Tahiti, 229 

New  Year's  Colloquy,           -         -        -        -  231 

Judgment  Separation,           -  233 

Shall  he  unbar  the  gates  of  death,         -         -  234 

Triumphate, 235 

I  marked  the  calm  moment,          ...  237 

Vision  of  the  Hebrew,          -        -         -         -  238 

In  Judah  now,  the  minstrel's  lyre,         -         -  239 

Amanda, 240 

The  Flower, 241 

The  Sunday-school  Teacher,        -         -        -  242 

Heathen  Converts  in  Christendom,       -         -  244 

The  Cherokee  Worshipper,          ...  246 

Thomas  S.  Grimke, 248 

The  Pious  Rum-seller's  Soliloquy,        -         -  250 

Who  cares  for  Jack, 254 

Job,  xxv. 256 

Ship  of  the  Dead, 257 

The  soul  released  from  feeble  clay,       -         -  259 

We  are  too  cold  for  those  whose  love,           -  260 

The  Final  Hour, 261 

Mechanics'  Temperance  Song,     -         -         -  262 

The  Temperance  Strike,      -         -         -         -  264 

Babylon, 265 

Gently  as  flows  Time's  noiseless  stream,       -  267 


XVI  CONTENTS. 

The  Tent,  Page  268 

Go,  dream  of  by-past  hours,          ...  270 

Union  prevails  in  Heaven,             ...  271 

The  Rose  that  decks  the  laughing*  dale,        -  272 

Rev.  Drs.  Reed  and  Matheson,      ...  273 

To  the  Holy  Alliance,                     ...  275 

Thou  sayest  the  world  refuses  its  smile,        -  277 

And  do  ye  still  reject  the  race,     -  278 

The  Missionaries'  departure  for  India,          -  279 

The  Charles  Wharton,          ....  281 

To  New  York,  in  1832,                  ...  283 

From  all  that  can  Intoxicate,         ...  285 

Death's  Changes, 290 

O,  oft  have  I  wept, 293 

The  Tract  left  at  my  house,          -         -         -  294 

The  Firemen's  Hymn,           ....  295 

Alcoholic  Wine  at  the  Lord's  Supper,           -  296 

Religion, 298 

The  Baptized, 299 

To  a  Missionary, 302 

O,  what  is  life  but  some  dark  dream,             -  304 

New  Year  Thoughts,             -         -         -         -  305 

Washington's  Freedmen,      -  308 

Sunday-schools  in  the  West,          -         -  312 

Books  in  Heaven, 315 

Suicide  of  a  Statesman,         -  316 

Verses  on  an  occurrence  of  the  19th  Century,  318 

Saratoga, 320 

Acts,  iii. 321 

My  Grave, 322 


THE  BOATMEN  OF  THE  WEST. 

Boatman  !  upon  the  stormy  lake, 

Or  on  the  river's  dancing-  crest, 
Whose  cheerful  song  and  whistle  wake 

The  echoes  of  the  West — 
Suspend  thy  toil  and  list  to  me, 
I  have  a  kindly  word  for  thee. 

Though  far  removed,  perhaps,  art  thou 
From  those  that  watched  thy  early  day, 

And  from  thy  native  mountains  now 
A  wanderer  away, 

From  vales  that  saw  thy  childhood's  dawn, 

From  the  sweet  home  where  thou  wast  born  : 

Though  broader  lands  have  lured  thy  feet, 
And  richer  pastures  have  thee  won, 

And  mightier  streams  than  ever  greet 
New  England's  hardy  son — 

Yet  should'st  thou  here  thy  God  forget? 

Sojourner,  dost  thou  serve  him  yet? 
B 


I 


18  THE  BOATMEN  OF  THE  WEST. 

And  thou !  upon  thy  native  lakes, 
Ohio's  free  and  fearless  child, — 

Whose  footstep,  distant  floods  and  brakes 
From  home  have  never  wiled — 

Suspend  thy  labour,  list  to  me, 

I  have  a  word  of  peace  for  thee. 

I've  heard  of  vigorous  men  that  ply 
The  oar,  and  those  that  urge  the  steam ; 

Whose  toiling  barques,  adventurous,  fly 
O'er  western  lake  and  stream, — 

Wlio  mock  at  sense  of  sin  and  shame, 

And  flout  and  scorn  their  Maker's  name. 

Methinks  as  they  their  vessels  guide 
Along  those  deeps  of  lovely  blue, 

That  wind  'mid  hills  and  prairies  wide, 
And  landscapes  ever  new — 

They'd  pause,  and  think,  and  time  their  mirth 

With  thanks  for  such  a  glorious  birth. 

Methinks,  that  at  the  noble  hymn 
Sent  up  from  every  dell  and  wood 

That  line  his  path,  when  stars  grow  dim, 
Charming  the  solitude — 

The  notes  of  man's  superior  song 

WTould  swell  those  of  the  woodland  throng. 


THE  BOATMEN  OF  THE  WEST.  19 

And  where  a  God  has  beauty  sown 
With  gracious  and  unsparing  hand, 

And  in  unwonted  bounty  thrown 
His  fatness  o'er  the  land — 

That  men  with  corresponding  care 

Would  render  back  the  meed  of  prayer. 

Yea,  that  they  would  bethink  them  too 
Of  love  that  woke  when  they  did  sleep : 

A  mother's  love — so  holy,  true, 
So  early,  quiet,  deep — 

And  with  that  tender  thought,  abjure 

The  sin  her  heart  might  not  endure. 

Bethink,  too,  of  the  aged  sire, 

Whose  step  is  frail,  whose  hair  is  gray ; 
Who  often  at  the  evening  fire, 

At  table  and  at  play — 
Dropped  kind  instruction  for  their  youth, 
And  gently  won  their  way  to  truth. 

Oh,  not  these  thoughts,  nor  charms  that  lie, 

Exuberant,  on  every  side, 
Will  lift  pure  glances  to  the  sky, 

Or  humble  human  pride — 
Unless  the  grace  that  can  renew, 
Shall  enter,  and  that  pride  subdue* 


20  FOR  SPAIN. 

Boatman  on  river  and  on  lake ! 

Rejoice — such  toil's  for  thee  begun; 
Men  of  the  cross  their  journey  take 

Toward  the  setting  sun — 
Their  hymn  those  inland  seas  shall  cheer, 
Of  righteousness  the  floods  shall  hear. 

For  Nature,  at  the  Maker's  call 

Poured  freely  forth  those  matchless  streams, 
And  scooped  those  vales,  and  decked  them  all 

Beyond  a  poet's  dreams — 
That  they  might  fitting  temples  be 
Of  worship  for  the  truly  free. 


FOR  SPAIN ! 

Up,  for  the  captive  Spain ! 

The  realm  of  chivalry — 
That  long  unto  imperious  Rome 

Has  bowed  the  abject  knee. 
Let  mighty  prayer  go  forth 

That  loosed  shall  be  her  chain ; 
And  glad  in  Jesus  Christ  may  be 

The  broad  bright  lands  of  Spain. 


FOR  SPAIN.  21 

Up,  for  the  soil  of  song ! 

The  clime  of  many  lays — 
Whose  melody  to  Sin's  been  given, 

Seldom  to  Heaven's  praise. 
Send  supplication  forth, 

That  presently  be  strung 
To  praises  evangelical, 

The  noble  Spanish  tongue. 

Up,  for  the  treasure-land ! 

Whose  ingots  are  her  loss, 
If,  in  their  golden  bravery, 

Forgotten  be  the  Cross. 
Oh,  show  her  that  her  gems 

Are  pale,  her  mines  are  mean, 
Scanned  in  the  faithful  telescope 

Through  which  the  Saviour's  seen. 

Up,  for  her  generous  youth ! 

Up,  for  her  beauteous  dames ! 
Sated  with  time,  that  they  may  learn 

Eternity  has  claims; — 
Learn  that  its  joys  untold, 

And  garniture  unpriced, 
Are  laid  up  for  God's  daughters,  and 

The  cavaliers  of  Christ. 


•Z  THE  INFANT  ORPHAN. 

Up,  for  ye  owe  a  debt ! 

She  rent  the  veil  away 
From  Centuries,  and  proudly  brought 

Your  continent  to  day : — 
Strive,  ye  new  men,  that  Christ's 

Banner  may  be  unfurled 
O'er  her,  that  long  for  Him  has  lain 

An  undiscovered  world. 

Up  !  for  her  nobles  lie 

In  superstition  bound ; 
Her  serfs  to  ignorance  are  sold, 

Her  princes  are  uncrowned ; — 
Proclaim  a  Jubilee ! 

That  mind  may  be  restored ; 
And  peasant  and  hidalgo  be 

Men,  taught  to  know  the  Lord. 


THE  INFANT  ORPHAN. 

Lately,  I  wandered  sadly,  where 
None  watched  my  way  or  saw  my  lot : 

Yet  God  beheld  me,  and  his  care 
Shielded  the  child  that  knew  him  not. 


THE  INFANT  ORPHAN.  23 

The  kind  Redeemer's  gentle  name 

Upon  my  lips  was  never  found ; 
He  spared  me — yes,  the  very  same 

That  wheels  those  golden  worlds  around. 

I  sometimes  thought  there  was  a  Power 
Made  the  tall  trees  and  flowers  to  grow, 

Bade  sunshine  warm  and  tempests  lower, 
And  who  but  God  could  thunder  so  ] 

But  now  I  know  the  Bible  tells 
Of  Him  that  rolls  the  stars  along ; 

And  in  the  cloud's  pavilion  dwells, 
Yet  condescends  to  hear  my  song. 

I  know  of  Jesus,  too,  whose  love 
For  children,  young  and  frail  as  me, 

Brought  Him,  the  Lord  of  all  above, 
Down  to  the  manger  and  the  tree. 

And  well  I  know  that  babes  distressed, 

And  weary,  find  in  him  a  home ; 
For  he  will  take  such  to  his  rest, 

And  say,  "  Forbid  them  not  to  come." 


24  WAR  NOT  WITH  FRANCE. 


WAR  NOT  WITH  FRANCE  ! 

And  to  the  traitor  who  avers 

That  coward  terror  prompts  the  word, 
My  country  !  show  thy  sepulchres, 

And  show  thy  victory-hiked  sword, — 
And  teach  him,  should  upon  thy  name 

Old  Europe  breathe  dishonour,  out 
A  million  such,  unsheathed,  would  flame ; 

And  millions  thee  would  wall  about ! 

War  not  with  France ! 
No — though  she  hath  withheld  thy  gold ; 

With  generous  blood  who  dares  weigh  dross  1 
Who  deems  a  nation's  honour  sold, 

Though  countless  ingots  be  her  loss  1 
Can  all  the  guerdon  thou  may'st  gain 

Be  recompense  for  crime's  increase  1 
Can  crimson,  spilt,  wash  out  the  stain 

Of  vice,  entailed  on  years  of  peace  1 

War  not  with  France  ! 
No,  not  for  Fame  ; — there's  many  a  home 

Earth's  holiest  blessing  now  makes  glad ; 
Bid  Battle's  foot  come  nigh  the  dome, 
And  all  is  there  to  make  life  sad. 


SYMPATHY.  25 

For  will  the  sheen  of  conquest  dry 
The  widow's  tear  it  caused  to  flow  ] 

From  orphaned  bosoms  the  low  sigh, 
Will  tones  of  triumph  banish  1 — No  ! 

War  not  with  France  ! 
Remembering-,  in  thy  darkest  hour, 

When  thou  wast  poor,  her  fleets,  her  men, 
With  thine  made  weak  the  Briton's  power, 

With  Freedom  France  was  kindred  then ! 
War  not  with  him,  the  wavering  Gaul : — 

The  present  for  the  past  forget ; 
And  who  shall  deem  the  motive  small, 

That  spares  the  land  of  Lafayette ! 
1835. 


SYMPATHY. 

Is  it  to  spurn  at  sorrow's  child, 

When  bitter  woes  assail ; 
While  pressed  by  want,  in  accents  mild, 

It  sobs  its  artless  tale  1 

Is  it  to  mock  at  heart-felt  grief, 
That  shrinks  beneath  the  storm ; 

With  chilling  frown  withhold  relief, 
And  say  "  be  full — be  warm  V 


26 


Oh  no  !  the  sympathetic  voice 
Ne'er  bade  the  poor  depart ; 

It  bids  the  weeping  soul  rejoice, — 
It  cheers  the  broken  heart. 


REVIVAL. 

In  our  secret  souls  we  know  it, 
Griefs  confess  and  joy  doth  show  it, 
Lowly  sigh  and  quiet  tear 
Tell,  the  Holy  Ghost  is  here  ! 

Simeon's  song  from  old  men,  now, 
Lisping  praise  from  children,  now, 
Young  men  bowed,  the  influence  feeling, 
Maidens,  in  their  meekness,  kneeling — 

Faltering  hymn,  and  broken  prayer, 
Moanings  of  the  heart's  despair, 
Peace,  revealed,  of  pardoned  sin, 
Tell,  the  Spirit  is  within  ! 

God,  the  Maker,  Christ  the  Giver — 
Holy  Ghost,  who'll  laud  for  ever  ? 
He,  the  vilest,  nearest  lost, 
Saved — will  love  the  Godhead  most. 


WHAT  IS  IT  CHEERS  THE  ACHING  BREAST.        27 


WHAT  IS  IT  CHEERS  THE  ACHING 
BREAST] 

What  is  it  cheers  the  aching-  breast'? 

What  bids  corroding-  sorrows  flee  ? 
What  sooths  the  heart  with  accents  blessed  1 

'Tis  hope  of  Immortality. 

When  tired  of  life,  though  life's  a  span, 
It's  painful  disappointing  round, — 

If  asked  of  bliss,  experienced  man 
Replies,  with  Earth  it  is  not  found. 

For  troubles  on  its  evening  lower, 
And  shadows  dim  its  cheerful  morn ; 

And  he  that  plucks  its  straggling  flower, 
Is  wounded  by  the  secret  thorn. 

The  fairy  dreams  that  sense  beguile, 
Like  dreams,  how  soon  they  disappear ! 

And  who  can  boast,  when  e'en  Love's  smile 
Is  but  the  prelude  to  a  tear  1 

What  panacea  blest  shall  cure 
The  soul-disease,  satiety? 


28  DEDICATION. 

What,  but  the  prospect  bright  and  sure, 
Of  pleasing  Immortality  ! 

Life  is  a  desert,  but  afar 

The  pillar  burns  with  steady  ray ; 
And  Hope  of  Future  is  the  star 

That  guides  the  wanderer  on  the  way. 

Here,  then,  I'll  hold,  and  doubt  disclaim, 
And  while  despondency  shall  flee, 

I'll  gratefully  adore  thy  name, 
My  God!  for  Immortality. 


DEDICATION. 

Heart  and  hymn,  thy  sons  and  daughters 

Give  thee  now,  Incarnate  Word ! 
Voices,  as  of  many  waters, 

Answer,  "  Holy,  Holy,  Lord!" 
From  thy  sanctuary  bending, 

Of  whose  bliss  the  Sun  thou  art, — 
Listen  to  the  song  ascending, 

Look  upon  the  humble  heart. 

What,  though  to  thy  Name,  a  dwelling 
Mortals  build,  whence  prayer  shall  rise- 


DEDICATION. 

Temples,  all  their  art  excelling, 
Are  thy  earth  and  painted  skies : 

Crowns  and  harps  are  thine  for  ever, 
Lord  of  Uncreated  Day ! 

Yet  from  our  low  praises,  never 
Wilt  thou  turn  thine  ear  away. 

Swelling  domes,  unto  thy  glory 

Reared,  we  scarcely  deem  begun, 
Till  upon  each  stone,  the  story 

Is  inscribed,  of  trophies  won. 
Here,  oh  Dove !  thyself  revealing, 

Let  the  tear  be  shed  for  sin ; 
O'er  us  spread  thy  wing  of  healing, 

Be  its  shadow  felt  within. 

Name !  in  which  we  raise  our  banner, 

Lay  the  stone  and  build  the  wall ; 
Name !  that  wakes  the  glad  hosanna, 

Name !  by  which  this  house  we  call : 
Opened  are  the  doors  of  heaven, 

Lifted  are  the  gates  of  God — 
Enter! — souls  to  Thee  are  given, 

Thou  that  hast  the  wine-press  trod. 


30  TO  MY  FATHER'S  OLD  BIBLE. 


TO  MY  FATHER'S  OLD  BIBLE. 

It  is  the  book  of  God.      What  if  I  should 
Say,  God  of  books  ? 

The  Synagogue. 

Faded  and  worn,  oh,  holy  Book ! 

To  me  much  charm  hast  thou ; 
For  sadly  cometh  on  my  gaze 

Long  buried  pleasure,  now  ! 
And,  as  I  ope  thy  blessed  leaves, 

My  Father  seemeth  near; 
I  hearken  to  his  voice,  and  see 

The  hand  that  once  was  here. 

I  note  the  precept  that  he  marked ; 

With  reverence  scan  the  line ; 
The  texts  on  which  his  eye  hath  paused, 

Arrest,  not  seldom,  mine. 
I  heed  again  the  counsel  kind, 

Which,  to  enforce  with  care, 
He  taught  me  to  repeat,  as  I 

Leaned  o'er  his  elbow  chair. 

The  years  come  back,  when,  frolic  done* 
At  twilight's  sober  hour, 


TO  MY  FATHER'S  OLD  BIBLE.  31 

I  duly  joined  the  household  hymn, 

And  prayer  for  shielding  Power. 
Can  I  forget  the  tones  of  peace 

That  blent  with  pious  awe, 
When  read  my  sire  of  gospel  love, 

Or  of  the  holy  law ! 

Can  I  forget  the  clustering  pearls 

He  gathered  then  from  thee — 
The  which  the  world  is  poor  to  buy, 

Yet  to  the  world  are  free  ] 
Oh,  as  he  read  that  earthly  joys 

Would  like  a  dream  depart, 
His  prayer  was  that  thy  blessings  I 

Might  wear  upon  my  heart. 

'Tis  well  to  call  up  vanished  hours, 

If  only  for  a  while — 
That  thus  on  early  boyhood  cast 

Their  fresh  and  fleeting  smile ; 
And  yet,  thou  hope-inspiring  Book  I 

The  solace  that  forbids 
Repining  o'er  departed  joys, 

Is  found  within  thy  lids. 

Thou  mindest  me  that  Time  hath  rolled 

Waves,  many,  since  the  day 
When  in  his  cerements  robed,  my  sire 

Was  borne  the  churchyard  w*ay  : 


32  to  my  father's  old  bible. 

Thou  mindest  me,  the  hour  of  prime, 
So  bright  and  brief,  is  gone ; 

And  these  are  shadows  of  the  eve 
That  now  are  stealing  on. 

Yet  unto  me,  oh,  blessed  Book! 

Thou  hast  a  living  charm ; 
The  promise  is  unsealed,  that  still 

Doth  years  of  ill  disarm. 
The  kindly  Gilead  bearest  thou, 

That  heals  the  hurt  within ; 
The  fountain,  ever  full,  hast  thou, 

So  potent  for  my  sin. 

Even  seeking,  here,  the  quiet  thoughts 

Of  him  who  sought  to  find, 
Like  angel-whispers,  gently  breathe 

Complacence  to  my  mind; 
Then  hold  I  converse  with  the  dead, 

And  taste  of  hidden  bliss ; 
The  spirit  of  a  better  world 

Allures  my  flight  from  this. 

I  trace  his  pilgrimage  of  pain, 
The  same  my  feet  have  known ; 

Compare  with  his  the  secret  sigh, 
And  count  with  his  the  groan ; 

And  pray  that  like  his  upward  way, 
May  mine  be  gladly  trod ; 


THY  KINGDOM  COME.  33 

To  drop  the  last  besetting  sin, 
And  rest  with  him  in  God. 

Thus,  holy  Book!  to  me  thy  page 

Is  redolent  of  peace, 
Which,  not  of  earth,  while  that  decays, 

Will  brighten  and  increase. 
Beyond  the  treasures  of  the  sea, 

Or  ingots  of  the  mine, 
And  fairer  than  the  world's  delights, 

The  excellence  that's  thine. 


THY  KINGDOM  COME ! 

Whate'er  invites  us  to  the  throne, 
Or  brings  the  contrite,  Lord !  to  thee, 
In  social  worship  or  alone, 
Still  shall  the  supplication  be 
Thy  Kingdom  come ! 

By  thy  pure  gospel,  duly  spread 
Where  India  hears  the  Shepherd's  voice, 
Where  Afric  rises  from  the  dead, 
And  islands  of  the  sea  rejoice — 
Thy  Kingdom  come ! 
c 


31  THY  KINGDOM  COME. 

By  schools  of  grace,  where  heathen  youth. 
Gathered  from  crime,  of  Jesus  hear ; 
Where  stubbornness,  subdued  by  truth, 
Bestows  the  penitential  tear — 
Thy  Kingdom  come ! 

By  Tracts,  with  inspiration  fraught, 
Blessed  messengers  to  him  afar, 
Who,  'nighted  and  forlorn,  is  brought 
To  welcome  Judah's  rising  star — 
Thy  Kingdom  come ! 

By  Bibles,  sent  to  distant  lands, 
Thy  own  imperishable  word, — 
Uniting  earth  in  kindred  bands, 
Spreading  the  empire  of  our  God — 
Thy  Kingdom  come ! 

By  all  the  prayers  thy  saints  below 
Have  rendered — this  dark  world  incline 
To  thee,  submissively,  to  bow : 
Oh,  come !  and  be  the  victory  thine — 
Thy  Kingdom  come ! 

By  all  the  love  thou  did'st  proclaim 
For  Him  on  whom  the  curse  was  laid ; 
Who  meekly  bore  our  sin  and  shame, 
The  Crucified — thy  wrath  who  staid — 
Thy  Kingdom  come ! 


the  hero's  grave.  35 


THE  HERO'S  GRAVE. 

Why  weeps  the  Muse  her  glory  fled ! 

Why  droops  Columbia's  Genius  so? 
The  laurel  wreath  is  sear  and  dead ; 

The  gallant  Hero's  form  is  low ! 
Ye  hoary  warriors !  hither  bring 

Your  tribute  to  the  kindred  brave ; 
Ye  beauteous  maidens !  haste  and  fling 

Your  chaplets  o'er  the  Hero's  grave. 

Let  those  depart,  who  tear  away 

The  wreath  that  marks  a  godlike  soul ; 
Let  those  depart,  who  chide  the  lay, 

And  for  his  faults  would  blot  the  scroll : 
Approach,  ye  generous,  feeling  few, 

Where  selfishness  can  ne'er  intrude ; 
Approach — the  Hero's  grave  bedew ; 

Sweet  are  the  tears  of  gratitude ! 

The  Hero  mingles  with  the  dust, 

But  Glory  shrines  his  deathless  fame ; 

The  tomb  receives  its  hallowed  trust, 
But  unborn  a^es  breathe  his  name ! 


36  THE  BAR  MAID. 

Yes,  mighty  dead !  in  every  breast, 
Thou  still  shalt  live,  to  memory  dear ; 

This  turf  by  virgin  footsteps  prest, 
Shall  witness  Sorrow's  dewy  tear ! 

Hither  shall  Sympathy  repair, 

To  deck  her  favourite's  early  tomb ; 
While  Charity,  with  aspect  fair, 

Will  mantle  thy  untimely  doom. 
Farewell !  the  gem  that  hailed  thy  morn, 

Now  sunk  beneath  the  western  sky, 
Will  wake  for  thee  a  brighter  dawn — 

The  Star  of  Glory  ne'er  can  die  ! 


THE  BAR  MAID. 

I  saw  a  lovely  girl — it  was  at  church — 
Who  knelt  before  her  Maker  in  the  beauty 
Of  maiden  meekness.     As  she  lifted  up 
Her  calm  blue  eyes  in  confidence  to  heaven, 
And  her  sweet  lips  were  parted  in  low  prayer, 
I  thought  that  never  had  been  seen  on  earth 
Such  likeness  unto  angels.    Presently 
She  approached  the  supper  of  the  Crucified, 
With  diffidence  and  in  humility  of  step ; 


THE  BAR  MAID.  37 

Revealing  lowliness  of  heart.     And  there, 
As  she  partook  the  symbols  of  His  death, 
With  trembling,  touched  the  blest  memorials — 
Her  dark  lids  swam  with  tears  of  penitence, 
And  holy  hope,  and  joy  that  passeth  words. 
Woman,  I  said,  though  ever  beautiful, 
And  every  where  attractive,  unto  me 
Thou  art  truly  lovely  when  Devotion  lends 
Its  halo  to  thy  charms. 

Again  I  saw  her — 'twas  the  same — she  stood 
Beneath  her  father's  roof. 
It  was  a  room  unseemly  to  the  sight — 
Ranged  round  were  cups  and  flasks,  on  which  was 

seen 
The  name  of  Alcohol.     The  place  was  filled 
With  vulgar  men.     The  thoughtless  youth  was 

there, 
Just  learning  his  sad  lesson.     Aged  heads 
Clustering  and  ripening  for  the  grave  were  there : 
And  there  the  filthy  debauchee.     Strange  oaths 
And  laughter  rude  I  heard. — The  jest  obscene 
Went  round :  and  some  were  reeling  in  their  drink. 
And  she — yes,  she,  that  beauteous  one,  that  sweet 
Young  blossom,  stood  amid  that  tainted  crew, 
As  'twere  a  pure,  bright  spirit,  suddenly 
Brought  in  its  skiey  freshness  to  the  damned. 
She  stood  behind  the  bar ;  her  lily  hand 


38  MILLENNIAL  MORN,  THY  ROSY  BEAMS. 

Poured  out  the  nauseous  draught,  and  mixed  and 

reached 
The  poison  to  those  outcasts.     With  vile  leer, 
That  withered  up,  methought,  her  virgin  charms, 
Those  bad  men  gazed  on  her,  and  laughed  and 

drank. 
And  still  they  drank,  and  still  she  filled  the  cup 
And  gave  it  them,  and  heard  their  brutal  talk, 
And  songs  of  hell. 

Her  sire  is  counted  one 
Of  the  pillars  of  the  church.     He  duly  prays, 
Gives  alms,  and  deems  himself  a  journey er 
To  heaven.     And  he  his  daughter  places  there 
A  daily  oblation,  acceptable 
Unto  the  Moloch  Rum  :  and  unrebuked, 
For  money  offers  up  his  innocent  child ; 
And  she,  obedient,  thus  is  sacrificed. 


MILLENNIAL  MORN,  THY  ROSY  BEAMS. 

Millennial  morn !  thy  rosy  beams 
Already  break  and  shine  on  high ; 

And  from  his  couch  the  day-spring  seems 
To  rush  and  glance  along  the  sky. 


GENESIS,  V.  24.  39 

Error  its  mantling-  cloud  rolls  back, 
And  fast  and  far  fly  shades  of  night ; 

The  wheels  are  heard  whose  living-  track 
Is  marked  by  resurrection's  light. 

'Tis  glorious  thus,  our  conquering  God ! 

To  greet  the  chariot  of  thy  Son ; 
Oh,  who  that  hath  his  war-plain  trod, 

Would  ever  toils  so  noble  shun  ] 

Gird  on  thy  sword,  most  Mighty !  sway 
The  sceptre  of  unquestioned  rule ; 

And  marshal  on  thy  glorious  way 
The  Bible,  Tract,  and  Sunday-school. 

Not  only  age,  but  youth,  the  call 

Shall  hear,  and  hasten  where  unfurled 

Thy  banners  wave  on  Zion's  wall, 
Symbols  of  freedom  to  a  world. 


GENESIS,  v.  24. 

He  was  not,  for  God  took  him. — On  the  mighty 

wing 
Of  the  obedient  whirlwind,  forth  the  prophet  rode 
'Mid  wilds  of  ether  where  no  foot  e'er  trode ; 
Where  unknown  worlds  and  suns,  revolving,  sing. 


40  BY  WHOM  OF  ALL  THY  CHOSEN,  LORD. 

Favoured  of  the  Most  High !  twas  thine  alone, 
Unracked  by  pangs  known  to  mortality — 
In  robes  of  clay  to  wander  near  the  throne, 
In  flesh  to  enter  thine  eternity. 
Thou  walked' st  with  the  Godhead,  boon  divine, 
Unknown  to  angels.    Christian  worshipper! 
When  nations  round  thee  sought  another  shrine, 
The  God  of  promise  claimed  thy  homage.    Ne'er 
Could  the  impious  shake  thy  faith ;  thy  heaven 
Began  on  earth.     Though  tabernacled  here, 
Communion  high,  and  vast,  to  thee  was  given, 
And  mystic  invitation  to  thy  sphere. 


BY  WHOM  OF  ALL  THY  CHOSEN,  LORD. 

By  whom  of  all  thy  chosen,  Lord, 
Wilt  thou  the  promised  temple  build  ? 

Shall  angel  legions  seize  the  sword, 
Nor  sheath  it  till  the  toil's  fulfilled? 

Earth's  monarchs — in  thy  cause  shall  they 
With  banners  rally  to  the  strife  ] 

And  win  with  worldly  arms  the  day, 
And  take  with  spear  the  crown  of  life  ? 

Oh,  not  by  the  embattled  throng, 
Who  travel  on  in  fields  of  light. 


THE  SMILE  IN  DEATH.  41 

Nor  by  Earth's  monarchs,  marshalled  strong, 
And  burning  for  the  glorious  fight — 

But  such  as  we,  and  feebler  far, 
Shall  in  thy  Name  subdue  the  foe ; 

And  weapons  simple  as  these  are, 
Be  strong  in  Thee  to  lay  him  low. 

As  faithful  warriors  of  the  cross, 
We  ne'er  can  faint  nor  falter,  since 

We  count  all  conquest  else,  but  loss, 
And  love  beyond  all  else,  our  Prince. 


THE  SMILE  IN  DEATH. 

When  the  last  stern  and  trophied  foe, 

The  hoary  monarch  of  the  tomb, 
The  spirit  freed  from  toils  below, 

And  bore  it  through  the  valley's  gloom : 

I  saw  upon  the  marble  brow 

The  peaceful  calm  'twas  wont  to  wear; 
Though  damps  had  gathered  o'er  it  now, 

Though  Death  had  stamped  his  image  there. 


42  0  GOD,  THIS  UNIVERSAL  FRAME. 


O  GOD,  THIS  UNIVERSAL  FRAME. 

O  God  !  this  universal  frame 
Reveals  the  splendour  of  thy  Name ; 
And  on  the  heavens  that  thou  hast  spanned, 
Its  characters  in  beauty  stand. 

Of  thee,  redeemed  ones  sweetly  sing, 
Where  errand-angels  plume  their  wing ; 
That  mellow  music  bursts  and  dies 
Ever  along  those  upper  skies. 

Yet  nobler  than  this  matchless  frame, 

Or  heaven  of  heavens  where  dwells  thy  Name, 

Is  He  who  once  this  footstool  trod, 

A  Sufferer — risen  Son  of  God  ! 

And  richer  is  his  word  of  love, 
Than  notes  that  shake  the  throne  above, — 
When  he  invites  his  children  home, 
Saying,  "  Forbid  them  not  to  come." 


43 


WINTER. 

Arrayed  in  gloom,  stern  Winter  reigns, 
With  aspect  chill  and  drear ; 

The  streams  are  locked  in  icy  chains, 
The  tempest  howls  severe. 

No  more  is  heard  the  songster's  lay, 
That  echoed  through  the  grove ; 

The  robin  shuns  the  leafless  spray, 
And  chants  no  more  of  love. 

Yon  orb  emits  a  feeble  gleam, 

That  lingers  cold  and  lone ; 
Its  evanescent  fitful  beam 

Proclaims  that  joy  has  flown. 

Emblem  of  life,  all  nature  wears 

A  robe  of  cheerless  hue ; 
The  storms  assail,  like  gloomy  cares, 

As  sad,  as  frequent  too. 

But  soon  these  clouds  shall  disappear, 
The  fields  with  verdure  smile ; 


44        WHEN  THE  SHADOWS  OF  DEATH. 

The  bubbling  brook  meander  clear, 
The  robin's  note  beguile. 

The  vernal  showers  shall  dew  the  earth, 

While  genial  suns  illume ; 
The  beauteous  flowerets  spring  to  birth, 

And  golden  harvests  bloom. 

Thus,  like  the  rays  of  Winter's  morn, 
That  cheerless  prospects  bring, — 

These  gloomy  cares  precede  the  dawn 
Of  an  unfading  Spring. 


WHEN  THE    SHADOWS   OF  DEATH 
SHALL  ENVELOP  THIS  CLAY. 

When  the  shadows  of  death  shall  envelop  this  clay, 
And  the  damps  of  the  grave  dew  this  brow ; 

When  the  smile  blooms  no  longer,  and  far,  far  away, 
Flies  the  spirit  that  lightens  it  now, — 

I  ask  not  the  trophies  of  grandeur  to  shrine 
The  dust,  that  with  dust  fain  would  blend ; 

I  ask  not  for  lays — be  the  monument  mine, 
The  remembrance,  the  tears  of  a  Friend. 


CHILDREN'S  CHRISTMAS  VERSES.  45 


CHILDREN'S  CHRISTMAS  VERSES. 

Earth  has  her  shout  of  welcome,  when 
To  fleeting  thrones  an  heir  is  born, — 

But  to  the  Hope  of  fallen  men 
She  gave  her  curse,  or  silent  scorn. 

'Tis  true,  His  coming  heralded 
Celestial  minstrels  on  that  night, 

When  one  sweet  star  the  shepherds  led 
To  Him,  the  Star  of  Morning  light. 

Yet  grief  was  his,  e'en  from  the  hour 
That  he,  a  babe,  to  Egypt  fled, 

Down  to  the  time  when  hell  had  power 
O'er  Life's  immortal  Monarch,  dead. 

Praise  for  it  all ! — for  by  his  pain, 
We  sinners  may  this  day  rejoice; 

The  second  death  to  him  is  slain, 
Who  hears  the  Resurrection's  voice. 

Praise  for  it  all ! — through  Him  that  died, 
We,  ransomed,  joyfully  may  sing, 

Where  none  forbid  the  palm,  or  chide 
The  lisped  hosannas  to  the  King. 


46  MEN  THAT  GO  DOWN  IN  SHIPS. 

What  shall  we  render  for  the  love 

Thus  brought  to  children  young  as  we  1 

We  give — look,  Saviour,  from  above — 
Ourselves,  eternally  to  Thee ! 


MEN  THAT  GO  DOWN  IN  SHIPS. 

Men  that  go  down  in  ships, 

Tempting  the  fickle  sea, 
Too  long  have  opened  rebel  lips, 

Lord  of  the  deep  !  to  thee. 

W^hen  lightnings  bowed  their  mast, 
And  storms  heaped  up  the  wave, 

They  reckoned  not  whose  arm  was  cast 
Around  them  there  to  save. 

Nor  when,  with  tempered  breeze, 

And  glad  and  gay  sunshine, 
Their  stately  ship  walked  through  the  seas,- 

That  breeze  and  sun  were  thine. 

"  The  winds  are  in  God's  fists," 

So,  too,  the  troubled  heart; 
And  when  the  Holy  Spirit  lists 

He  bids  its  storms  depart — 


DECEMBER.  47 

And  makes  the  Sailor  know 

The  peace  that's  felt  within ; 
That's  seen  when  tears  of  pleasure  flow 

At  thought  of  pardoned  sin. 

Praise !  that  thy  presence,  Lord, 

The  ocean-tost  has  known ; 
And  where  go  gallant  ships  abroad, 

Go  hearts  that  seek  the  throne. 


DECEMBER. 

Farewell,  December !  cheerless  as  thou  art, 

Arrayed  in  gloom,  thou  hast  for  me  no  smile ; 
Thou  canst  not  whisper  pleasure  to  this  heart, 

Thy  aspect  cannot  life's  sad  ills  beguile. 
O'er  thee,  the  sombre  child  of  Winter,  stern, 

Nature  is  weeping  in  funereal  gloom ; 
Cheerless  the  trophies  that  adorn  thy  urn; 

Cold  are  the  rites  that  consecrate  thy  tomb. 

Farewell,  December !  and  with  thee,  the  year, — 
Another  year,  that  ends  its  course  with  thee ; 

Another  year  that's  severed  from  my  span, 
Lost  in  the  embrace  of  dark  Eternity. 


48  FOR  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 

What  hopes  and  fears,  what  schemes  of  future  bliss 
Have  sparkled  on  the  past  with  fairy  gleam ! 

Futile  those  schemes,  and  false  each  hope,  for  this 
Brief  life  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  dream. 

Farewell,  December! — Ere  in  frowns,  again 

Thou  reign'st,  the  empress  of  the  howling  storm, 
Perhaps  this  bosom,  free  from  secret  pain, 

May  rest  in  quiet ; — this  unconscious  form 
May  pillow  kindly  on  its  lowly  bed, 

And  know  of  grief  no  more. — Will't  not  be  sweet, 
When  gently  called  by  an  approving  God, 

On  yonder  peaceful  shore  to  rest  the  weary  feet? 


FOR  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 

Ye  kind  Benevolent !  that  know 
Of  intellectual  bliss  the  sum, 

Ye  whose  expanded  feelings  glow, 
Smile  on  the  hapless  Deaf  and  Dumb ! 

On  them  the  storms  have  rudely  blown, 
They  wither  on  the  breast  of  even ; 

Receive  the  flowerets  to  your  own, 
Their  fragrance  will  ascend  to  heaven. 


RETROSPECTIVE.  49 

In  knowledge  let  them  freely  share, 
From  the  waste  mind  let  darkness  flee ; 

Bid  the  bright  day-beam  kindle  there, 
The  lamp  of  immortality. 

Though  soothing  blandishment  ne'er  cheers 
Their  solitude,  nor  utterance  kind, — 

Yet  mutual  sympathy  is  theirs, 
The  language  of  the  kindred  mind. 

And  this  shall  bless  you,  and  the  tear, 
Nature's  pure  accent — will  reveal 

Emotions  undefined,  yet  dear, 
The  tribute  that  the  heart  can  feel. 

Yes !  and  the  bosom  whispered  prayer 
Of  Innocence  shall  rise,  while  some 

Winged  messenger  to  God  will  bear 
The  offering-  of  the  Deaf  and  Dumb. 


RETROSPECTIVE. 

How  many,  that  a  few  months  since 
Sat  with  us  by  our  Christmas  fire, 

Have  left  Earth's  low  inheritance, 
And  at  God's  bidding  gone  up  higher ! 
D 


50  RETROSPECTIVE. 

How  many,  we  were  wont  to  deem 

Would  in  gray  hairs  our  solace  be, 
Have  left  these  precincts,  where  men  dream, 

To  test  the  gTeat  reality ! 

A  child,  that  kissed  away  our  care, 

Whose  smiles  strewed  life  with  some  sweet  flow- 
Has  left  our  bosom's  love,  to  share  [ers, 

Love  of  heaven's  hyacinthine  bowers ! 

A  friend — but  Retrospection  !  stop — 
Nor  stir  the  founts  of  hidden  grief; 

Yet  bless  I  Him,  who,  for  each  drop 
Of  anguish,  has  a  kind  relief, — 

And  for  each  mortal  hurt,  a  cure, 

That  penetrates  the  heart  within ; 
The  Medicine  of  Mercy,  sure, 

And  safe  for  sickness  wrought  by  sin. 

Religion ! — be  its  treasures  mine ! 

With  this,  I  am  creation's  heir; 
With  this,  a  worm  with  God  shall  shine ; 

Without  it,  what  remains  ] — Despair ! 


51 


WORSHIP. 

Irradiate  Thou  !  although  thy  throne 

Is  arched  above  revolving  spheres* 
Though  attributes  are  thine  alone 

In  number,  countless  as  thy  years, — 
Though  'neath  thy  feet  is  darkness  spread, 

There  the  hushed  thunders,  trembling,  lie,- 
Though  in  thy  presence,  fraught  with  dread, 

The  unveiled  worshipper  may  die, 

Yet  we,  Oh  God !  a  feeble  band, 

In  Jesus,  may  acceptance  claim ; 
Yet  we,  the  creatures  of  thy  hand, 

May  come,  and  breathe  a  Father's  name ! 
Lord  of  Assemblies !  Oh,  inspire 

Our  hearts  with  eloquence  of  prayer ; 
From  yonder  temple  waft  the  fire, 

That  glows  upon  thine  altar  there. 

While  we  approach  the  mercy  seat, 
Once  hidden,  but  in  Christ  restored, 

And  tread,  with  unpresuming  feet, 
The  place  of  Holiest  to  the  Lord, — 


52  BUN~YA>T'S   CHAIR. 

Hear  Thou  in  heaven,  and  oh,  impart 
Some  ray  that  burns  and  cheers  above, 

The  thrill  that  tells  us  where  Thou  art, 
Dread  Uncreate !  is  light  and  love. 

Thou  art  Almighty — we  are  dust. — 

Thou  art  All-seeing, — finite  we, 
In  judgment  erring, — Thou  art  just, 

Fountain  of  strength !  we  draw  from  thee. 
Shine  on  our  worship — Rise,  thou  Star 

Of  David,  chase  the  night  away ! 
Bid  Faith's  strong  vision  look  afar 

To  Thee,  the  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way ! 


BUN  YAWS  CHAIR. 

On  receiving  a  Picture  of  John  Bunyan's  Oaken 
Chair;  which  still  remains  in  the  Vestry  of  his 
Chapel,  in  Bedford,  England. 

A  thousand  years  ago,  no  doubt, 

Towered  up  the  sapling,  fair. 
From  whose  tough  heart  wast  thou  shaped  out. — 

John  Bunyanrs  Oaken  Chair ! 


bunyan's  chair.  53 

And  silent  centuries  have  gone, 

Since  some  forgotten  wight 
Made  thee,  that  seemest  so  forlorn, 

Both  beautiful  and  tight. 

The  two  brass  nails,  whose  value  must 

As  relics,  rival  gold — 
Were  wrought,  and  in  thy  fore  legs  driven 

By  Bunyan's  self,  I'm  told. 

And  here  thou  art — and  show'st  the  scars 

Of  use,  and  age's  rust, 
While  thrones  and  seats  of  kings  and  czars, 

Have  tottered  down  to  dust. 

Old  Chair  !  with  thoughts  akin  to  dread, 

I  look  on  thee,  for  thou 
Call'st  up  the  venerable  dead; — 

One  sits  before  me  now ! 

One  sits  before  me  ! — who  is  he  1 — 

A  gra}T-haired  man  he  seems ; 
Such  flashing  e}~e,  yet  kindly,  we 

May  sometimes  see  in  dreams. 

The  same  in  reverend  form  and  look 

That  boyhood  pictured,  when 
I  dwelt,  impassioned,  on  his  Book, — 

My  heaven  of  romance,  then  ! 


54  bunyan's  chair. 

The  same  that  simply,  truly  taught, 
While  simple  hearts  gave  heed — 

Of  freedom,  gold  has  never  bought, 
Of  men,  whom  Truth  has  freed. 

The  same  that  fell  beneath  the  grim 

Myrmidon  coward  crew, 
That  fastened  outward  gyves  on  him, 

Yet  could  not  soul  subdue. 

The  same  whose  noble  fancies  soared, 

Like  eagles,  to  the  sky ; 
And  far  above  their  dungeon  poured 

Immortal  strains  on  high. 

Chair !  that  hast,  seen  in  faction's  whirl 
Three  kingdoms  sorely  vexed, 

Speak  through  the  mist  of  years  to  us, 
Who  are  in  turn  perplexed  : 

And  if  thou  canst,  to  these  far  climes 

The  destiny  reveal, 
That  soon  for  us  shall  fall  from  Time's 

Untiring,  toiling  wheel. 

Shall  here  be  forged  the  self-same  chain, 

The  lofty  free  to  bind  ] 
Shall  prisons,  whips,  and  racks  of  pain, 

Thrall  here  undaunted  mind  1 


buxyax's  chair.  55 

Shall  brutes  breathe  here,  like  those  that  led 

Old  Bunyan  to  his  cell  ] 
And  shapes  flit  here,  like  those  that  fed 

In  England,  fires  of  hell  ? 

If  so, — what  matters  it  with  us 

Are  found  the  glorious  dead  1 — 
That  fields  of  fame  are. here,  and  hills 

Of  victory  lift  their  head  ? 

What  matters  it  that  God  has  rained 

His  benisons,  if  we 
Must  write  our  fallen  nation's  name 

No  longer  with  the  free  ? 

If  thought  be  muzzled,  and  the  Press 
Be  hemmed  with  outdrawn  steel  1 — 

If  to  our  sword  won  heritage 
Be  linked  the  bondman's  seal ! 

Yea,  if  upon  the  innocent, 

Be  fixed  the  brand  of  shame  ] — 
And  such  to  save  from  murder,  boots 

Not  even  the  Christian's  name  ! 

No  more — no  more — I  will  not  make 

A  stricken  land  my  theme, — 
A  chainless  spirit  is  abroad 

That  shall  her  faith  redeem, — 


56  IS  IT  WELL  WITH  THE  CHILD. 

And  purge  away  her  one  dark  spot, — 
For  she,  the  tempest-tossed, 

Must  rise,  a  pure  republic,  free, 
Or  sink — a  nation  lost. 
1835. 


IS  IT  WELL  WITH  THE  CHILD? 

'Tis  well  with  her,  who  on  that  bed 
Of  sickness,  late,  was  laid  so  low  ; 

'Tis  well — though  anguish  bowed  her  head, 
And  conflicts  rent  her  bosom  so. 

'Twas  well  with  her  in  health's  glad  hour, 
Well,  when  the  wasting  arrow  came ; 

Oh,  she  could  trust  his  wins"  of  power, 
For  she  had  learned  a  Saviour's  name. 

'Tis  well  with  her,  though  we  have  laid 
In  kindred  dust  that  beauteous  form ; 

She  lives,  a  bright,  celestial  maid, 
Far,  far  above  life's  raging  storm. 

'Tis  well  with  her — the  lovely  one, 
Though  like  a  broken  flower  she  lies ; 

Her  mortal  puts  immortal  on, 
Her  graces  flourish  in  the  skies. 


NEW  YORK.  57 

'Tis  well  with  her — oh  God  'tis  well 
Ever  with  those  whom  thou  dost  love, 

Whether  in  fleshly  tents  they  dwell, 
Or  tread  thy  starry  courts  above. 


NEW  YORK; 

DURING    THE    PESTILENCE    OF    1822. 

Sister  city  !  wrapt  in  fears, 

Stricken  by  affliction's  rod, 
Now  with  you  we  mingle  tears — 

We  have  heard  the  voice  of  God ! 
In  your  street  the  sigh  of  angruish 

Steals  upon  the  shuddering  ear ; 
On  your  couch  are  those  that  languish, 

Destined  to  another  sphere. 

Fathers  hasten  to  the  tomb  ; 

Lo,  in  dust  the  matron  lies, — 
Blighted  is  the  maiden's  bloom, 

Where  the  stern  Death- Angel  flies  ; 
Mute  the  cheerful  note  of  gladness, 

Mirth  forsakes  her  favourite  spot, — 
Hark  !  the  midnight  sob  of  sadness, 

Mothers  weep,  the  babe  is  not ! 


58 


Now  in  Death's  appalling  hour, 

When  the  thunderbolt  is  nigh, 
Spare  the  victims  !  Sovereign  Power  ! 

Walk  in  robes  of  mercy  by. 
On  the  wings  of  earnest  prayer 

Shall  for  these  our  incense  rise, — 
Wafted  to  yon  altar,  there 

Smile  upon  the  sacrifice. 


SLAVERY. 

The  Hypocrites  !  how  curst  are  they, — 
Their  shameless  treachery,  how  deep — 

Who  boast  of  mild  Religion's  sway, 
Yet  leave  their  race  in  chains  to  weep  ! 

My  Country  !  shall  it  ever  be, 

That  thou,  escaped  from  Slavery's  rod, — 
Thou,  only  happy,  only  free, 

Shall  barter,  too,  the  price  of  blood  1 

Say !  shall  the  offspring  of  that  soil, 

Which  smokes  e'en  now  with  veteran  gore, 

Be  sharers  in  the  cruel  spoil, 
That  desolates  the  Afric  shore  1 


SONG  OF  DEBORAH  AND  BARAK.         59 

"  Forbid  it,  heaven  !"  each  freeman  cries, 
"Forbid  it  feeling-,  manhood,  shame  !" 

Then  haste  !  avert  the  sacrifice, 

And  cleanse  thy  proud,  thy  sullied  name. 


SONG  OF  DEBORAH  AND  BARAK. 

Lord  !  when  thou  went'st  in  might  from  Seir, 
When  thou  didst  march  from  Edom's  field, 

The  hoary  mountains  quaked  with  fear, 
Earth  trembled  at  thy  burning  shield. 

Thy  wheels  were  heard,  and  ocean  fled, 

The  heavens  were  scrolled  beneath  thy  feet ; 

The  old  foundations  shook  with  dread, 
When  wrath  was  gathered  round  thy  seat. 

We  praise  thee,  Lord  !  alone  possessed 
Of  all  that's  high,  or  gTeatly  fair ; 

Though  darkness  is  thy  chosen  rest, 
Yet  mercy  beams  divinely  there ! 


60  ARE  NOT  MY  DAYS  FEW. 


OH  MARY,  TAKE  THIS  BRILLIANT  GEM. 

Oh,  Mary  !  take  this  brilliant  gem, 

I've  brought  thee  from  the  Indian  mine ; 

I  would  it  were  a  diadem, 

Dear  maid  !  the  treasure  should  be  thine. 

Sparkling  with  nature's  modest  glow, 
Unnumbered  beauties  thou  mayst  see ; 

'Tis  chaste  as  Virtue's  self,  and  so 
Sweet  girl !  it  doth  resemble  thee. 


ARE  NOT  MY  DAYS  FEW? 

Hast  thou  not  treasured  the  amount 
All-wise  Creator,  of  my  days ! 

In  thy  dread  councils  are  not  few 
The  years  appointed  man  ] 

Soon  I  shall  lay  this  weary  frame 

To  rest  upon  its  native  bed  ; 
This  form,  the  worm's  unconscious  prey, 

Will  slumber  peacefully. 


ARE  NOT  MY  DAYS  FEW.  61 

Pleasure,  Ambition, — ah,  how  trail, 

Deceiving,  will  ye  then  appear ; 
Inscribed  with  luring  falsehood  all, 

All,  oh,  my  God  !  but  thee. 

Why  then  should  folly's  passing  dream 
The  mind's  best  energies  control  1 

Why  should  the  world's  vain  pageantry 
Allure  the  soul  from  heaven  1 

Why  should  I  sigh  when  sorrow's  cloud, 
Gathering,  obscures  life's  little  day  ] 

When  disappointment  withers  hope, 
Why  should  I  weep  ? 

Teach  me,  my  Maker,  earth  to  prize 

As  unsubstantial,  insincere ; 
Draw  me  from  time,  and  bid  me  soar 

To  immortality. 


6*2  HIS  PATH  IS  THE  OCEAN. 


HIS  PATH  IS  THE  OCEAN,  HE  MAKETH 
HIS  DWELLING. 

His  path  is  the  ocean,  he  maketh  his  dwelling 
Where  tempests  are  cradled,  and  winds  rudely 
blow ; 

His  joys  like  the  billows  he  buffets,  now  swelling, 
And  now  like  to  them  sunk  forgotten  below. 

On  land  with  his  messmates  to  share  he  is  willing, 
By  veterans  in  wickedness  easily  led, — 

He's  fleeced,  cast  adrift,  when  is  gone  the  last 
shilling, 
The  sky  for  his  covering,  the  pavement  his  bed. 

By  perils,  by  watchings,  by  misery  broken, 

Of  the  world  he  is  weary,  though  few  are  his 
years ; 

Does  he  sigh  for  a  better .? — to  him  none  has  spoken 
Of  the  clime  where  for  ever  are  wiped  away  tears. 

In  penury  now,  and  in  dread  of  the  morrow, 
He's   friendless,    forsaken,    and   haggard,    and 
mean; 


HIS  PATH  IS  THE  OCEAN.  63 

The  jest  of  the  thoughtless,  he  lingers  in  sorrow, 
Till  death  kindly  enters  and  closes  the  scene. 

And  such  is  the  Mariner ! — such  was  he,  rather, 
Till  justice  had  taught  us  our  duty  to  him ; 

Now  gladly  and  freely,  life's  comforts  we  gather 
Around  his  rough  course,  so  long  dreary  and 
dim. 

Lifts  comforts  ! — Oh  yes,  and  to  him  shall  be 

given, 

From  hearty  benevolence  here  running  o'er — 

The    Chart    that   directs   the   poor   wanderer   to 

heaven, — 

The  Star  that  shines  out  on  Eternity's  shore. 

In  storms  shall  rise  sweetly  the  Sailor's  devotion, 
His  song  in  the  calm  of  the  beautiful  sea, — 

In  Bethels  ashore,  in  his  toil  on  the  ocean, 
To  God,  who  the  God  of  the  lowly  will  be. 


64  THE  TWO  PILLARS. 


THE  TWO  PILLARS. 

If  I  were  to  speak  of  preparation  for  the  out- 
pouring of  the  Holy  Spirit,  I  should  mention  the 
Sunday-school  and  the  Temperance  cause ;  those 
two  Doric  pillars  of  society,  standing  as  they  do 
on  the  firm  foundations  of  the  Gospel,  and  tower- 
ing as  they  do  among  us,  admired  and  guarded  by 
the  leading  minds  of  the  Christian  community. 
N.  Y.  Evangelist, 

What  mean  these  towering  pillars,  that 

So  beautifully  stand ; 
And  look  in  simple  majesty 

Sublimely  o'er  the  land  1 

Round  one  is  twined  the  heavenly  wreath 

Of  everlasting  green, 
Where  smiles,  and  joys,  and  budding  years 

Luxuriantly  are  seen. 

'Tis  based  on  love,  and  gracefully 

The  column  soars  on  high ; 
Bright  hopes  are  clustering  round  the  shaft, 

Whose  summit  seeks  the  sky. 


THE  TWO  PILLARS.  65 

The  other,  like  a  giant,  springs 

From  Resolution's  rock ; 
Temptation's  storms  may  round  it  rave, 

It  meets,  unharmed,  the  shock. 

How  comely  are  the  chaplets  which 

Festoon  this  noble  pile  ! — 
The  grief  that's  healed,  the  tear  that's  dried — 

The  wife  and  children's  smile  ! 

And  guarded  by  the  watchful  bands 

Of  Gratitude,  behold, 
Around  them  gather  aged  men, 

And  sweet  ones  of  the  fold. 

Twin  pillars  of  a  nation's  pride  ! 

Unshaken  shall  ye  stand, 
When  pyramids  reel  down  to  dust, 

And  heaves  like  ocean,  land. 

For  as  the  ever  during  hills 

Must  Truth  and  Temperance  be  ; — 

Oh,  God,  grant  us  such  resting  place, 
When  pass  the  earth  and  sea ! 


66  LEAVE  THY  FATHERLESS  CHILDREN. 


LEAVE  THY  FATHERLESS  CHILDREN. 

Come  hither,  my  sweet  babes  ! — This  is  the  hour 
Your  sainted  father  gathered  ye  around, 
In  happy  circle.    Come  !  and  we  will  join 
The  accustomed  evening  prayer ;  and  though  he 

kneels 
With  us  no  more,  his  spirit  lingers  near, 
And  gladly  will  behold  us. 

Open  now 
God's  Book — the  treasure  of  rich  promise,  where 
Are  garnered  jewels  for  the  orphaned  one, — 
Yea,  for  the  widow,  precious  comfortings, 
Richer  than  wedges  of  the  hidden  gold. 
"  Leave,"  saith  He,  "  Leave  thy  fatherless,  and  I 
Will  safely  keep  them,  and  in  my  right  arm 
Let  thy  sad  widows  trust" — Tins  is  for  us ! 


VESPERS. 


VESPERS. 


How  awful  is  the  note  of  praise, 
The  mingling  choir, — 

While  slowly  wafting  vesper  lays, 

Mortals  the  glad  oblation  raise 
To  David's  lyre ! 

When  they  devotion's  impulse  feel, 

How  calm  the  hour ! 
With  trembling  hope,  the  sisters  kneel, 
While  Music,  thought  from  earth  doth  steal 

With  holy  power. 

Richly  the  murmuring  cadence  flows, 

The  impulse  given — 
With  cheerful  swell,  with  solemn  close, 
Draws  us  away  from  earthly  woes, 
To  dream  of  heaven. 

Sweet  is  the  requiem  for  the  dead — 

'Tis  Music's  sigh  ! — 
At  such  an  hour,  while  o'er  the  bed 
We  bend,  where  rests  the  peaceful  head, 
Who  would  not  wish  to  die  ! 


68  THE  DESERTER. 


THE  DESERTER. 

His  cheek  was  pale,  and  wildly  there 
Was  seen  the  fearful  blanch  of  wo ; 

His  eye  was  fixed,  its  lurid  glare 
Told  of  the  heart's  convulsive  throe. 

I  heard  the  drum  beat  mournful  knell, 
The  fatal  moments  swiftly  sped — 

I  shuddered  as  the  signal  fell, 

I  saw  him  numbered  with  the  dead ! 

To  bear  him  to  an  early  tomb, 

Stern  men  were  seen  beside  his  bier ; 

Unknown,  he  fell  in  youthful  bloom, 
Forgotten  was  Affection's  tear. 

And  such,  accursed  War  !  I  said, 
Thy  ills,  and  such  thy  hateful  stain ; 

Nurtured  by  thee,  the  heart  grows  dead, 
And  sighing  Virtue  pleads  in  vain. 


THE  COLOMBIAN  FLAG.  69 


THE   COLOMBIAN  FLAG. 

What  Meteor  burns  clear  on  the  bosom  of  night, 

What  trophy  illumes  the  horizon  afar  1 
'Tis  the  flag  of  the  brave — beaming  herald  of  light — 

The  symbol  of  glory,  Colombia's  Star! 
It  waves  o'er  the  fortress  where  tyranny's  yoke 

Had  crushed  with  oppression  the  soul  of  the 
Free; 
On  the  ruins  of  crime  where  the  death  spell  is 
broke, 

It  banners  triumphant,  Grenada !  o'er  thee. 

In  the  valleys  of  Quito  the  symbol  is  seen, 

The  soil  of  the  Patriot  is  dewed  with  a  tear, 
It  streams  o'er  the  mountain  with  aspect  serene, 

And  the  tempests  of  night  in  rebuke  disappear; 
Afar  to  the  breeze,  see !  it  floats  on  the  mast, 

Where    Commerce    unshackled,    revives    his 
domain, 
The  pledge  of  the  future — the  pride  of  the  past, 

Full  proudly  it  waves  o'er  the  land  and  the  main. 

Let  the  tyrant's  heart  tremble  when  Liberty  calls, 
His  myrmidons  shrink  at  the  conqueror's  name; 


70  WHO  MAY  ENTER  HEAVEN. 

While   the   watchword   of   Freedom   the   despot 
appals,  [claim. 

The  Spaniard,  restored,  shall  her  honours  pro- 
We  hail  the  proud  flag  to  Columbia's  strand, 
Where  the  plaudit  of  millions  bids  welcome 
again 
To  the  symbol  of  hope  on  the  billow  and  land, 
The  triple  striped  banner  of  Peace  and  New 

Spain ! 
1820. 


WHO  MAY  ENTER  HEAVEN] 

Not  he,  indulging  vain  pretence, 
Who  boasts  some  impulse  given ; 

Nor  he  that  braves  Omnipotence, 
Can  hope  to  enter  heaven. 

The  careless  and  the  mad  profane, 

Possess  no  holy  calm ; 
The  heart  that  holds  Religion  vain 

Can  never  taste  its  balm. 

But  he  is  blessed,  whose  thoughts  are  still 
From  proud  presumption  free ; 

Who  loves  mankind,  and  doth  fulfil 
That  precept,  Lord  !  to  Thee. 


71 


VERSES 

Occasioned  by  the  death  of  H.  J.  Esq.  who  having 
purchased  a  ticket  of  admission  to  Peale's  Paint- 
ing of  "  The  Court  of  Death,"  exhibiting  in  the 
Capitol  at  Albany ;  while  in  the  act  of  crossing 
the  threshold  leading  to  the  room,  fell  down  and 
instantly  expired. 

The  serious  wish  was  thine  to  view 
His  Court  whose  symbol  is  the  tomb  ; 

To  scan  the  scenes  that  genius  true 

Had  sketched  with  more  than  fancy's  gloom. 

Heaven  heard  the  prayer — 'twas  worthy  one 

Longing  for  immortality ; 
And  suddenly,  thy  labour  done, 

Called  thee  to  its  reality. 

Yet  shall  not  terror  o'er  thee  rule, 
Nor  Death  retain  his  boasted  prize ; 

His  Court  was  but  the  vestibule 
That  led  thee  to  thy  native  skies. 


72  THE  DYING  YEAR. 


THE  DYING  YEAR. 

Thou  dying  Year !  thou  dying  Year ! 

Have  we  not  seen  thee  quickly  fly  ] 
Vision  of  days,  but  lately  here, 

We  wake,  and  thou  hast  hurried  by. 
In  fitful  murmurings,  sadly  wild, 

Thy  dirge  the  sullen  winds  have  sung ; 
And  Winter  comes,  thy  weeping  child, 

His  fleecy  mantle  o'er  him  flung. 

Prophet  of  ages  !  hoary  seer ! 

Thou  wast  not  seen  where  systems  roll ; 
When  flew  thy  axle,  Charioteer  ! 

In  noiseless  triumph  to  its  goal  1 
Suns,  burning  once,  now  quenched,  no  trace 

Marked  of  thee,  in  infinity ; 
Nor  the  dim  worlds  that  hang  in  space 

Wrapt  in  their  own  eternity. 

Thou  wast — yet  mortals  know  not  whence ; 

Hast  been  enjoyed — thou  art  not  here ; 
Thou'st  vanished  !  gone  for  ever  hence, 

Yet  we  shall  meet  thee,  deathless  Year  ! 


THE  DYING  YEAR.  73 

The  Chronicler,  unwearied  Time, 

Exultingly  points  to  the  scroll 
Where,  deeply  graved  with  touch  sublime, 

Live  the  long  annals  of  the  soul. 

There  dwell  in  characters  of  fire, 

Corruption's  deed  and  brooding  Hate; 
And  lettered  there  in  language  dire, 

The  mad  oppressor  views  his  fate. 
There  lives  the  prodigal's  just  doom, 

And  his  that  shared  the  selfish  part ; 
And  there,  in  never  dying  bloom, 

The  actions  of  the  generous  heart. 

Before  the  darkly  burning  throne, 

Time  renders  up  his  dreadful  seal ; 
The  deeds  of  men,  unclothed,  alone, 

The  mystic  manuals  reveal. 
'Tis  finished, — in  Heaven's  chancery, 

— Angels  behold  it  with  a  tear — 
The  scroll  is  given,  Eternity 

Embosoms  the  receding  Year. 


74  the  mother's  prayer. 


THE  MOTHER'S  PRAYER. 

There  is  a  strain  of  holy  power, 

Unknown  to  fancy's  ear, — 
That  often  charms  the  silent  hour, 

And  God  delights  to  hear ; 
'Tis  when  with  meekly  lifted  eye, 

That  beams  parental  care, 
With  humble  faith  and  hallowed  sigh, 

Ascends  the  Mother's  Prayer. 

When  Childhood  treads  its  devious  way, 

With  thorny  flowerets  strewed — 
Wlien  youth  with  folly  loves  to  stray, 

A  stranger  still  to  God ; — 
To  Him,  the  source  of  sure  relief, 

The  suppliant  doth  repair ; 
She  casts  on  Him  her  secret  grief, 

Who  hears  the  Mother's  Prayer. 

In  manhood's  prime  her  anxious  heart 

Attends  his  footsteps  still ; 
In  all  his  pleasure  bears  a  part, 

And  weeps  the  wayward  ill ; — 


i 


FAIR  IS  THE  SCENE.  75 

While  agonized  with  fear  and  love, 

And  ever  watchful  care, 
Like  incense,  sweet,  ascends  above 

The  pious  Mother's  Prayer. 

And  while  devotion  fear  dispels, 

With  holy  hope  assured, — 
Some  kind  commissioned  spirit  tells, 

11  Thy  vows  of  faith  are  heard  !" 
Oh,  rich  the  grace  that  heaven  bestows, 

To  bless  maternal  care  ; 
And  large  the  stream  of  love  that  flows, 

Called  by  a  Mother's  Prayer. 


FAIR  IS  THE  SCENE  WHEN  THE  MISTS 
OF  THE  MORNING. 

Fair  is  the  scene  when  the  mists  of  the  morning', 
Chased  o'er  the  mountains,  fly  quickly  away ; 

Rich  is  the  view  when  the  faint  blush  of  dawning, 
Brightening,  discloses  the  empire  of  day. 

Splendid  the  pomp  when  the  glad  beam  advancing, 
Illumines  with  glory  its  march  through  the  sky ; 

Gilding  the  landscape,  its  beauties  enhancing, 
As  it  flings  o'er  creation  its  beautiful  dye. 


76 


TO  WHOM  SHALL  WE  GO  BUT  TO  THEE. 


Chaste  is  the  ray  when  the  night  star  is  gleaming, 
Lovely  and  lone,  in  its  orbit  of  blue ; 

Mild  is  the  halo  when  Cynthia  beaming, 
Mellows  the  shade  with  her  silvery  hue. 

Sweet  are  these  charms,  and  this  bosom  will  ever 
Own  with  devotion  their  magic  to  please ; 

But  ne'er  while  there's  truth  be  forgetful,  oh  never, 
That  the  smile  of  affection  is  sweeter  than  these. 


TO  WHOM  SHALL  WE 
THEE? 


GO  BUT  TO 


When  rankling  sorrows  wound  the  soul, 
And  cares  invade  the  breast ; 

And  distant  seems  the  blissful  goal 
Of  peace  and  lasting  rest, — 

Where  shall  the  mourning  wanderer  go, 

And  where  the  sufferer  fly  ] 
What  balm  can  heal  his  bosom's  wo, 

Whose  hand  his  tears  can  dry  ! 


Say,  shall  he  seek  in  empty  fame 
A  cure  for  bitter  care  ] 


TO  WHOM  SHALL  WE  GO  BUT  TO  THEE.  77 

Can  echoed  praise  or  honour's  name, 
Beguile  the  soul's  despair ! 

Will  grandeur  with  its  dazzling  lure, 

Bestow  a  kind  relief; 
Can  pageant  pomp  and  pride  ensure 

A  panacea  for  grief] 

Doth  pleasure  with  bewitching  guile, 

Invite  him  to  her  arms  1 
Too  soon  he  finds  the  glance  and  smile 

Are  but  deceitful  charms. 

Where  shall  the  mourning  wanderer  go, — 

Oh,  where  the  sufferer  fly  1 
What  balm  can  heal  his  bosom's  wo, 

Whose  hand  his  tears  can  dry ! 

Blessed  Saviour  !  'tis  alone  to  thee, 

He  flies  with  anguish  prest ; 
And  thou  the  captive  soul  wilt  free, 

And  give  the  weary  rest. 


78  A  COLLOQUY  OF  BETHLEHEM. 


A  COLLOQUY  OF  BETHLEHEM. 

And  lo  the  Star,  which  they  saw  in  the  East,  went  before  them; 
till  it  came  and  stood  over  where  the  young  Child  was. 

Matt.  ii.  9. 

O'er  Bethlehem  the  beauteous  Star, 
Bright  stranger !  sheds  mysterious  ray  ; 

It  guides  the  traveller  afar, 

It  cheers  the  wanderer's  weary  way. 

FIRST  SHEPHERD. 

Oh,  Shepherd  !  whence  the  peerless  gem 
That  burns  alone  on  heaven's  brow  1 

Beams  there  Judea's  diadem — 
Returns  a  king  or  conqueror  now ! 

SECOND  SHEPHERD. 

No  diadem  for  Judah  burns ; 

No  regal  sceptre  for  her  kings ; 
From  spoil  no  conqueror  returns, 

No  pageantry  the  herald  brings  ; — 

It  shines,  the  harbinger  of  peace, 
Israel  no  more  shall  weep  in  blood ; 


WHEN  YON  BRIGHT  ORB.  7!) 

It  bids  dark  superstition  cease, 
And  leads  the  sinner  to  his  God. 

FIRST  AND  SECOND  SHEPHERDS. 

Star  of  Redemption !  from  thy  sphere, 
A  herald  Star — thou  wanderest  lone  ; 

Shine  on  our  path,  dispel  our  fear, 
And  £uide  us  to  the  Infant's  throne. 


WHEN  YON  BRIGHT  ORB  BENEATH 
THE  AYE  ST. 

When  yon  bright  orb  beneath  the  west 

Descends  in  shades  of  even, — 
When  all  is  hushed  in  peaceful  rest, 
The  soul  aspires  to  regions  blest, 

And  finds  repose  in  Heaven. 

'Tis  then  all  fleeting-  joys  below, 

Awhile  to  mortals  given, — 
Seem  but  the  pageant  of  a  show, 
The  veil  that  hides  a  latent  wo — 

And  false,  compared  with  Heaven. 


80  may,  1835. 

'Tis  then  all  cares  and  sorrows  here, 
By  which  frail  man  is  driven, — 

As  evening  shadows  disappear, 

And  all  within  is  calm  and  clear 
Illumed  with  rays  from  Heaven. 

Freed  from  this  Earth,  my  soul  would  share 

The  joys  to  angels  given, 
In  bright  celestial  mansions,  where 
Blest  virtue  beams  divinely  fair, 

The  glorious  dawn  of  Heaven. 


MAY,  1835. 

Month  of  May  !  I  wonder  why 

Poets  ever  sang  of  thee ; 
Thou  art  present  here,  yet  I 

Naught  of  May,  the  charmer,  see. 

All  thy  skies  are  clouded  o'er ; 

Either  east  winds  coldly  blow, 
Or  comes  down  the  feathery  store, 

Lingering  yet,  of  Winter's  snow. 


may,  1835.  81 

I  have  looked  to  see  the  bright 

Sunsets  of  thy  mellow  day ; 
But  was  glad,  by  anthracite, 

Sitting,  to  forget  'twas  May. 

I  went  forth  upon  thy  First, 

Balmy  breezes  to  inhale, 
But  'twas  raw  as  Christmas,  just; 

Lips  and  cheeks  were  blue  and  pale. 

Yesterday  I  strolled  to  make 

Bouquets,  as  I  used  to  do ; 
But  I  got  an  ague  shake, 

And  a  spell  of  coughing  too. 

If  cold  weather,  now  thy  mate, 

Takes  a  hint  and  will  retire, 
By  July,  I  calculate, 

We  may  do  without  a  fire. 


SONG  OF  THE  BIBLE. 


SONG  OF  THE  BIBLE. 


The  Bible  speaks,  that  has  spoken  before, 

Though  men  have  heard  in  scorn ; 
It  speaks  to-day,  as  it  spake  of  yore, 

To  all  of  Adam  born ; — 

I  am  speaking  yet,  I  am  speaking  yet, 

As  I  spake  long  years  ago ; 
And  I  bring  down  light  to  those  that  sit 

In  the  shadows  of  death  below. 

The  powers  of  Sin,  they  have  leagued  with  men. 

To  hinder  my  warning  cry ; 
But  in  their  dismay  they  have  trembled,  when 

My  voice  was  lifted  high. 

The  infidel  rose  in  his  zeal,  unblest ; 

False  philosophy  deemed  me  a  sham ; 
And  its  leader  wore  upon  his  crest, 

" Ecrasez  Vinfame" 

To  his  place  has  the  scoffing  infidel  gone, 

With  Shaftesbury  and  Voltaire ; 
I  am  speaking  yet, — his  wail  goes  on, — 

His  wail  of  anguish — where ! 


SONG  OF  THE  BIBLE.  83 

I've  broken  the  iron  slumber  of  years, 
Which  the  Papacy  cast  around  me ; 

And  I  witness  his  tottering  step  and  fears, 
Whose  traditions  would  have  bound  me. 

I  am  speaking  yet  to  Earth  in  sin, 

With  more  than  mortal  lungs ; 
Already  to  her  nations,  in 

A  hundred  and  fifty  tongues. 

I'm  found  in  the  Eastern  clime,  where  fast 

The  Hindu  holds  his  chain ; 
And  I'm  seen  in  the  North  as  bread  that's  cast 

Abroad,  to  be  gathered  again. 

I  go  down  in  the  ships  and  cheer  the  men 

That  traverse  the  mighty  sea ; 
I  go  with  the  mission  bands,  and  then 

The  Pagan  is  glad  for  me. 

To  the  dying  fool  who  has  bartered  heaven, 

I  speak,  as  he  gasps  for  breath, 
Of  gold  that  unto  rust  is  given, 

When  it  cannot  save  from  death. 

To  the  poor  and  despised,  yet  rich  in  faith, 

W'hose  love  to  Christ  is  much, 
I  speak,  and  my  word  of  promise  saith 

That  blessed  for  aye,  are  such. 


84  SONG  OF  THE  BIBLE. 

To  the  proud  I  say,  let  those  that  think 
They  stand,  look,  lest  they  fall, — 

But  the  trembling  soul  that  fears  to  sink, 
I  raise  above  them  all. 

To  those  that  in  the  Tempter's  hour 

Have  seen  his  dreadful  shape, 
I've  said,  for  this,  my  sovereign  power 

Shall  find  some  sure  escape. 

I  am  speaking-  yet,  I  am  speaking  yet, — 

The  secrets  I've  made  known, 
Have  caused  the  wretch  his  grief  to  forget, 

And  the  king  to  forget  his  throne. 

One  word  of  mine  has  planted  the  thorn 

In  the  sinner's  downy  bed, — 
And  cheered  the  dreams  of  the  just,  forlorn, 

Though  a  dungeon  wrapt  his  head. 

I  am  speaking  yet, — my  words  of  life 

Drop  an  immortal  balm 
For  mortals,  grappling  in  the  strife, 

With  Death's  omnipotent  arm. 

I  sooth  the  father  when  distress 
Wrings  damps  out  on  his  brow ; 

Leave  with  thy  God  thy  fatherless, — 
Thy  widow  with  him  now. 


SOXG  OF  THE  BIBLE. 

I  speak  to  the  fainting  mother,  when 

Her  last  look  tries  to  dwell 
On  all  she  loves  and  leaves ;  and  then 

How  sweet  is  her  farewell ! 

I  speak  as  the  innocent  babe  goes  home, 
When  it  feels  the  mortal  touch, — 

0,  fear  not,  little  one  !  to  come ; 
His  kingdom  is  of  such. 

I  am  speaking  yet !  nor  shall  return 

My  word,  as  void  in  time  ; 
Nor  when  the  last  day's  sun  shall  burn, 

Or  the  stars'  last  hymn  shall  chime. 

I  am  speaking  yet, — and  I  shall  speak 
When  the  heavens  pass  away ; 

And  my  foes  will  in  their  agony  seek 
To  hide  from  that  fearful  day  ! 


86  THE  LEVELLER. 


THE    LEVELLER. 


"  My  mother  died,  and  I  sorrowed  for  her,  more 
because  England  had  lost  a  Countess,  than  that  J 
had  been  deprived  of  a  parent,  I  thought  it  was 
dreadful  that  we  should  be  subject  to  a  shroud — 
a  pall — a  coffin!" 

'Tis  humbling  to  our  poor  mortality, 

To  think  that  we  must  leave  all  fond  delight, 

All  joys  and  friendships,  all  we  know,  and  be 
Lost  to  our  bosom's  love,  inurned  in  night, 

And  slumber  where  none  dream,  beneath  the  pall, — 

Forgotten  by  them  all. 

To  leave  illuminated  rooms — the  dance, 
Exciting  song,  and  hum  of  careless  mirth, 

For  darkness  which  sound  breaks  not,  save  per- 
chance 
The  tooth  of  reptile  burrowing  near  our  earth — 

Which  falls  not  on  the  dull  regardless  ear, 

And  causes  us  no  fear. 

And  yet,  to  the  sad  child  of  poverty 

It  matters  nothing : — Death  disturbs  him  not ; 


i 


THE  LEVELLER.  87 

Yea,  by  its  friendly  portal  he  may  flee 

From  the  world's  cares,  lie  down  and  be  forgot. 
Calm  is  that  night  of  resting-,  sweet  the  bed 
Where  he  reclines  his  head. 

The  grave,  to  him  who  fellowships  with  woes, 
Is  clothed  in  beauty  :  yea,  the  softest  down 

Is  there  inviting  him  to  kind  repose ; 

And  0,  within  that  chamber  the  cold  frown 

Of  the  unfriendly  world  is  not :  the  jeer 

Of  proud  ones  comes  not  here. 

And  he  that  in  his  Maker  puts  his  trust, 
Fears  not  to  die.     Even  in  the  trying  hour, 

When  life's  strings  break,  and  he  draws  near  the 
He  is  as  one  superior  to  the  power  [dust, 

Of  Death.     Intently  on  the  opening  tomb 

He  looks,  and  sees  no  gloom. 

But  5/ie,  the  haughty,  affluent,  and  gay, 

The  pleasure-loving,  beautiful  and  young — 

The  high — the  flattered — shall  the  damp  cold  clay 
WTrap  her  fair  limbs,  and  she  be  rudely  flung, 

A  broken  flower,  from  cherished  ones  away, 

Given  unto  decay  % 

Forget  it,  Lady  ! — seek  out  pleasure's  haunt ; 
Say  to  Prosperity,  Be  thou  my  good ! 


88  TO  THE  MISSOURI. 

And  to  the  thought  of  sickness,— death — avaunt ! 

Nor  on  my  joys,  unbidden  guest,  intrude  : 
Forget  it  at  the  rout  and  brilliant  hall, 
And  in  the  crowded  ball. 

Thou  canst  not  always ! — thou  mayst  shut  thine  eye 

Upon  the  future  in  thy  revelry ; 
But  the  unwelcome  truth  that  thou  must  die, 

In  midnight's  silence  shall  come  over  thee, — 
Admonishing,  that  woven  is  the  shroud, 
Alike,  for  low  and  proud. 


TO  THE  MISSOURI. 

WRITTEN  BEFORE    THE    CONSTITUTION  OF  THE  STATE 
OF  MISSOURI  WAS  ADOPTED. 

Roll,  vast  Missouri !  roll  thy  mighty  wave, 
Where  savage  mountains  skirt  the  southern  sea ; 

In  foaming  pride  the  woodless  desert  lave, 

Where  nature  cleaves  its  rugged  breast  for  thee. 

Queen  of  the  waters  !  waft  to  Indian  shores 
The  fruitful  tribute  of  a  generous  soil, 

Where  genius  triumphs,  where  rich  plenty  pours 
The  glad  exuberance  of  honest  toil. 


TO  THE  MISSOURI.  89 

Go  mighty  billow  !  bear  to  Nature's  child 
The  noblest  boon  compassion  can  bestow ; 

Improving  arts,  diffusive  knowledge  mild, 

The  living  fount  whence  happiness  should  flow. 

Go  tell  the  wretch  the  Whiteman  yet  can  feel, 
He  yet  can  weep  the  wrongs  that  avarice  gave ; 

Though  deep  the  wound,  the  Calumet  shall  heal, 
The   Peace  branch   blossom  on  the   hatchet's 
grave. 

Roll  on — uncrimsoned  with  pollution's  stain, 
The  crime  of  Freemen  still  unknown  to  thee, — 

To  latest  ages  fertilize  the  plain, 

That  proudly  boasts  the  Ethiopian  free  ! 


TO  THE  MISSOURI. 

WRITTEiN  AFTER  THE    CONSTITUTION    OF    THE    STATE 
OF  MISSOURI  WAS  ADOPTED,   1820. 

To  thee,  Missouri !  fancy  woke  the  strain,     [lay ; 

While  prescience  hailed  Compassion's  simple 
She  fearless  sang  of  Freedom's  sylvan  reign, 

When  Slavery's  night  should  yield  to  smiling 
day. 


90  TO  THE  MISSOURI. 

Raptured,  she  soared  to  fields  of  Eden  bloom, 
And  winged  her  way  to  hope's  Elysian  sphere, — 

Alas,  how  changed  !   the  vision  fades  in  gloom, 
And  naught  remains  but  Pity's  lonely  tear. 

Shame  on  the  heart  where  avarice  finds  a  rest, 
And  bids  its  victim  seal  the  Negro's  knell ! 

Shame  on  my  country  !  that  within  her  breast, 
The  hireling  advocates  of  Slavery  dwell. 

Yet  shall  not  feeling,  manhood,  ever  sleep  ; — 
The  Star  of  Liberty  sets  not  in  night, — 

Where  now  in  solitude  its  votaries  weep, 
Shall  glory  rise  with  new  effulgence,  bright. 

Some  happier  age  in  Legislation's  halls, 

Thou  Eloquence  !  wilt  break  the  accursed  chain ; 

While  Freedom's  Genius  towers  along  the  walls, 
Nature  shall  plead,  nor  plead  her  rights  in  vain. 


SONG  OF  JACOB  TO  RACHEL.  91 


SONG  OF  JACOB  TO  RACHEL. 

Oh,  who  is  she  !  ye  swains  declare, 
What  Shepherdess  that  wanders  nigh  ] 

Is  she  a  form  of  earth  or  air, — 

The  maid  that  meets  my  ravished  eye ! 

Her  locks  are  gemmed  with  Hermon's  dew, 
Like  night's  star  ray  her  smiles  are  seen ; 

Her  eyes  of  morn's  cerulean  hue, 
Speak  all  the  spotless  soul  within. 

With  sandals  girt,  to  Haran's  well, 
At  noon  the  fainting  Hebrew  came  ; 

Her  charms  he  heard  the  Shepherds  tell, 
They  sang  of  love  and  Syria's  dame. 

The  maid  that  smiles  so  sweetly  fair, 
Shall  bless  the  weary  pilgrim's  toil ; 

Like  Sharon's  rose  her  beauties  are, — 
The  flower  of  blooming-  Padan's  soil. 


92  SHE  MAY  NOT  DIE. 


SHE  MAY  NOT  DIE 


The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 

To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 

To  give  repentance  to  her  lover, 
And  wring  liis  bosom,  is— to  die. 


Goldsmith. 


Ah,  no  !   Compassion  yet  imploring", 
With  balmy  lip  will  sooth  the  sigh ; 

While  Pity  bends  with  look  restoring, 
The  hapless  maiden  shall  not  die  ! 

The  thorn  of  guilt  may  pierce  the  sinner, 
Repentance  will  succeed  the  smart ; 

Religion's  holy  smile  shall  win  her, 
And  Mercy  heal  the  wounded  heart. 


0,  WHO  WOULD  LOVE  A  WORLD  LIKE  THIS.        93 


O,  WHO  WOULD  LOVE  A  WORLD  LIKE 
THIS. 

0,  who  would  love  a  world  like  this, 

The  sad  receptacle  of  fears, — 
Did  not  the  hope  of  future  bliss 

Like  suns,  break  out  and  gild  our  tears  ! 
Can  all  the  worldling  calls  his  own, 

The  meteor  bliss,  by  pleasure  given, 
Cheer  the  sad  heart  that  weeps  alone, 

Or  heal  the  breast  by  anguish  riven  ! 

O,  who  would  yield  existence'  day, 

The  boon  so  frail,  so  soon  withdrawn, — 
Did  not  the  hand  that  leads  our  way 

Point  to  a  fairer,  brighter  dawn  1 
Could  misery  ne'er  some  ray  descry 

Beyond  death's  shadowy  veil  of  gloom ; 
The  wretch,  accursed,  would  dread  to  die, 

Despair  would  shudder  at  the  tomb. 


94  LAKE  ERIE. 


LAKE  ERIE  ;  Sept.  10,  1813. 

'Tis  midnight,  the  dark  wave  of  Erie  flows  lone, 
'Mid  the  gloom  of  the  forest  that  shadows  it 
round ;  [moan, 

The  slow-winding  surge  lends  its  deep  sullen 
And  the  hoarse  winds  reluctantly  echo  the  sound. 

'Tis  midnight,  and  see,  'mid  the  gleam  of  the  wave, 
Where  'neath  the  cold  ray  their  sad  vigils  they 
keep — 

In  the  mists  of  the  foaming,  the  Souls  of  the  Brave, 
As  all  lonely  they  march  o'er  the  cliff  of  the  deep ! 

'Tis  midnight ;  they  tell  when  the  thunder  of  war 
Proclaimed  the  approach  of  the  dark  battle  fray; 

When  the  blast  and  the  death  drum  rolled  deeply 

and  far,  [prey- 

WTtile  the  angel  of  blood  hovered  high  o'er  his 

Look  afar, — 'tis  hope's  symbol,  the  flag  of  the  free ! 

Through  the  red  cloud  it  gleams  on  the  war 

shattered  mast ;  [be, — 

Proud  stars  !  soon  the  types  of  stern  triumph  to 

Bright  pledge  of  the  future,  the  pride  of  the  past. 


. 


SOLITUDE.  95 

The  tall  barks  in  merciless  conflict  have  neared, 
Death  gleams  on  the  blade  as  they  charge  on 
the  foe ; 

And  hark,  'tis  the  shouting  of  victory  heard, — 
Columbia,  thy  foemen  in  battle  are  low  ! 

'Neath  the  dark  waves  of  Erie  now  slumber  the 
brave, 

In  the  bed  of  its  waters  for  ever  they  rest ; 
The  flag  of  their  glory  floats  over  their  grave ; 

The  Souls  of  the  Heroes  in  memory  are  blessed. 


/  SOLITUDE. 

There  are,  who  seek  in  happy  Solitude, 
Not  Solitude  of  base  misanthropy, — 

The  bliss,  on  which  the  gay  cannot  intrude, 
The  thoughts  that  revel  in  eternity. 

Then  heaven  is  nigh,  and  the  world's  feverish 
dream, 

And  passion's  storm,  grief's  tumults  disappear; 
Peace  looks  out  smiling  with  celestial  beam, 

And  hope's  fond  ray  illumes  the  latent  tear. 


96  SOLITUDE. 

Yes,  there  are  moments  when  with  winning  power, 
Retirement  claims  the  willing  soul  for  God ; 

How  privileged,  to  tread  at  such  an  hour 
The  hallowed  path  that  folly  never  trod ! 

But  fly,  ye  guilty  !  from  these  shades  profound  ; 

Ye  votaries  !  approach  not  to  the  throne, 
Who,  reckless,  stray  in  dissipation's  round, 

Who  shun  the  sabbath  of  a  heart  alone. 

The  fadeless  flower  that  retrospection  rears, 
And  loves  to  rear,  is  nightshade,  rank,  to  you, 

Memory,  whose  glance  hath  penetrated  years, 
With  scorpion  sting  will  your  retreat  pursue. 

Fly  to  that  world  which  ye  have  loved  so  well, 
Arrest  its  shadows, — all  its  pleasures  share, 

Then  ask  Seclusion,  "What  are  they]" — she'll 
tell, 
Death  to  the  soul,  and  food  for  curst  despair ! 


TO  THE  SUN.  97 


TO  THE  SUN. 


Oh,  glorious  monarch  !  Sire  of  day  ! 

Emblem  of  the  Eternal  Mind, — 
Thou  holdest  thy  majestic  sway, 

In  grandeur  of  thy  own  enshrined. 

Of  old  art  thou.    From  night's  long  sleep, 
Chaos  awakening,  saw  thy  birth ; 

The  Almighty  called  thee  from  the  deep, 
The  life  of  new  created  earth. 

Thou  saw'st,  when  journeying  on  thy  car, 

The  animated  tribes  appear ; 
And  thou  wast  present,  when  the  star 

Of  morning  chanted  from  his  sphere. 

And  thy  fair  beams  on  Paradise 
Cast  brightly  down,  exulting  ray, 

When  the  Three  One,  in  council  wise, 
Gave  Man  the  undivided  sway. 

Thou  saw'st  him,  conscious,  walk  abroad, 

In  innocence  and  beauty  free ; 
Thou  saw'st  his  offspring,  weaned  from  God, 

Render  the  impious  vow  to  thee. 

G 


98  TO  THE  SUN. 

Deeds  of  destruction,  dark  and  deep — 
Dread  page  ! — it  has  been  thine  to  scan ; 

Thou  hast  beheld,  when  heaven  could  weep 
The  madness,  perfidy,  of  Man. 

His  mandate  once  withheld  thy  course, 

To  sentinel  the  battle  plain ; 
His  crime  once  withered  up  thy  source, 

When  He  who  lent  thy  fires  was  slain. 

When  thou,  like  day's  divinity, 
Climb'st  the  empyrean  vault  alone, 

I  love  to  recognise  in  thee, 

The  chastened  splendours  of  the  throne. 

While  mighty  empires  wax  and  wane, 
O  Sun  !  and  nations  rise  and  die — 

Thou,  undiminished,  hold'st  thy  reign, 
The  changeless  sovereign  of  the  sky. 

Man  glides  elate  down  pleasure's  stream, 
Thou  slumberest,  tranquil,  on  the  wave ; 

Man  turns  to  dust — thy  brilliant  beam 
As  brightly  dances  o'er  his  grave. 

Yet  not  immortal  thy  career ; 

Thou  who  hast  witnessed  Earth's  decay, 
Dismantled,  tumbled  from  thy  sphere, 

With  ruined  worlds,  wilt  flee  away. 


THE  CONNECTICUT.  99 


THE  CONNECTICUT. 

The  scenes  of  gay  childhood,  to  me  ever  dear, 
Often   smile   o'er    the    prospect    in    memory's 
dream ; 

Then  the  valley  and  mountain  enchanting  appear, 
And  broadly  meanders  Connecticut's  stream. 

'Twas  there,  dearest  Brother  !  when  Autumn  had 
prest 

His  fingers  of  gold  on  the  lawn  and  the  wood, 
While  our  hearts  were  reposing,  in  sympathy  blest, 

We  wandered  as  free  as  the  billow  we  loved. 

'Twas  charming !  and  oh,  how  delightful  the  hour, 

As  we  strayed  where  Northampton  arose  to  the 

view ;  [flower, 

WThile  fancy  culled  fragrance  from  each  budding 
We  smiled  at  the  sketch  that  futurity  drew. 

With  the  freshness  of  morning  we  welcomed  the 

sun,  [played ; 

When  his  beam  upon  Holyoke's  proud  eminence 

And  often  in  sadness  we  wandered  at  noon, 

WThere  the  poplars  lent  awe  to  the  cemetry's 

shade. 


100  THE  WITHERED  LEAF. 

Oh !  I  wish  not  the  heart  that  could  carelessly  stray 
Where  thy  landscapes,  old  Hampshire  !  in  ver- 
dure appear ! 

O'er  its  chill  can  no  glimpse  of  tranquillity  play, 
It  knows  not  the  pang,  nor  the  bliss  of  a  tear. 

Land  of  his  Fathers !  the  minstrel  still  loves  thee, 

And  fain  would  his  numbers  display  all  thy 

sweets ; 

Though  cares  may  now  claim  him,  a  wanderer  far 

from  thee, 

His  heart  still  is  true  and  to  childhood  it  beats. 

Like  a  ray  of  calm  sunshine  'mid  life's  gathering 
ills, 

Joy  breaks  on  the  pilgrim,  in  memory's  dream ; 
And  in  vision  he  roams  o'er  his  own  native  hills, 

And  rambles  again  by  Connecticut's  stream. 


THE  WITHERED  LEAF. 

I  saw  thee  eddying  on  the  air, 

Thou  lonely  fallen  leaf; 
I  marked  thy  hue,  it  once  was  fair, 

And  yet  thy  reign  how  brief! 


THE  WITHERED  LEAF.  101 

'Twas  lately  that  in  summer  tide, 

Thou  wav'dst  on  yonder  tree  ; 
I  saw  thee  shine  in  dewy  pride, 

When  morning  beamed  on  thee. 

How  humble  now,  thy  lowly  lot, 

Neglected  and  alone ; 
Thy  form  and  hue  remembered  not, 

Thy  summer  day  has  flown ! 
And  such,  I  said,  our  chequered  state, 

And  such  affection's  doom, — 
It  charms  awhile,  but  wayward  fate 

Despoils  the  fairy  bloom. 

The  morning  beams  that  seem  to  bless, 

Too  soon  are  veiled  in  tears ; 
The  smiles  that  glow,  when  joys  caress, 

Retire,  when  grief  appears. 
Like  thine,  lone  leaf,  by  storms  bereft, 

The  tints  of  summer  fly  ; 
And  sorrow's  hapless  child  is  left 

To  droop  awhile — and  die  ! 


102  MRS.  S.  D.  R. 


MRS.  S.  D.  R. 

Mournfully  bade  she  them  adieu ; — 

Why  left  that  mother  these  ? 
To  seek  health  in  its  mountain  haunts, 

And  drink  the  balmy  breeze. 
And  silently  her  consort  then, 

And  wondering  babes  she  pressed  ; 
And  tears  dropped  on  her  helpless  one — 

The  infant  at  her  breast. 

One  look,  ere  for  New  England's  home ! 

One  look ! — it  is  the  last ; 
They  meet  no  more — that  family — 

Till  earth  with  them  has  past. 
And  there,  in  her  paternal  vale, 

Where  knew  she  childhood's  day, — 
Pillowed  upon  affection's  arm, 

Her  spirit  passed  away. 

'Tis  sad,  that  hopes,  the  fairest,  still 
Like  visions,  mock  our  ken ; 

'Tis  sad  that  holy  ties  should  be, 
As  though  they  ne'er  had  been. 


i 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  PRECEDING.  103 

And  yet,  beyond  the  starry  worlds 

Earth's  love,  refined,  is  known ; 
And  these  fond  hopes  are  but  lost  in 

Fruition  of  the  throne. 

Weep  not  for  her  /—eternally 

Have  fled  her  tears  and  pain ; 
Weep  not  your  loss ! — for  such  to  die, 

What  is  it  but  to  gain  ] 
Rather  live  so  that  when  we  rise 

To  meet  Christ  in  the  air, 
She'll  see,  in  glory's  coronet 

Arrayed,  her  loved  ones  there. 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  PRECEDING. 

The  mother,  peacefully,  had  passed  away, 
As  quiet  starlight  gently  fades  away — 
Far  from  Earth's  tears  to  bowers  of  sunny  joy. 
Her  infant  languished  with  us  here  awhile, 
Wept  for  its  parent,  turned  away  and  smiled, 
And  gladly  followed.     One  sweet  girl  was  left — 
The  mother's  image. — 'Twas  her  pleasant  task, 
With  childhood's  prattle,  to  beguile  the  grief 
That  rested  on  her  sire  ;  and  she  would  climb 


104  CHILDREN  OF  THE  PRECEDING. 

Upon  his  knee  and  look  into  his  face, 
And  ask  for  mother ;  then  would  kiss  away 
The  tear  that  came,  unbidden,  at  that  word, — 
And  he  was  comforted. 

On  her  sick  bed 
She  spake  of  her  dear  brother, — asking  oft 
If  she  might  see  him ; —  Yes,  and  when  I  die 
And  go  to  heaven,  wont  I,  dear  Papa? 
She  said  her  hymn,  and  lisped  her  little  prayer ; 
'Twas  the  last  time — for  ere  another  sun 
Sank  down  into  the  West,  she  sweetly  sank 
Into  His  arms  who  said,  their  angels  ever 
Behold  his  Father's  face  in  heaven. 

And  who, 
Thinking  of  such, — a  mother  and  her  babes, 
Safe  gathered  from  life's  evils, — free  from  sin — 
Dwelling  with  Jesus ; — who  for  such  can  mourn  1 


WILLIAM,  HOWARD  AND  EUGENE.  105 


MISS  AMELIA  C , 

RETURNING  TO  NEW  ENGLAND. 

You  go,  fair  Amelia !  those  regions  to  bless, 
Where  the  sun  of  your  youth  brightly  shone ; 

Where  affection  bestowed  the  parental  caress. 
Where  childhood's  dear  visions  were  known. 

You  go  !  and  fond  pleasure  illumes  with  its  smile, 
Those  eyes  of  sweet  Sympathy's  hue ; 

You  go  !  but  what  dream  shall  our  bosoms  beguile, 
Enchanted  no  longer  by  you  ? 


WILLIAM,  HOWARD  AND  EUGENE. 

Beautiful  blossoms,  as  ye  seemed,  my  boys  ! 
And  fragrant  to  the  sense,  sweet  to  the  eye, 
Ye  were  for  other  regions, — and  the  sky — 

Balmy  and  healthful,  redolent  of  joys. 

Where  no  sirocco  comes  nor  storm  annoys — 

Received  ye.    There,  unfadingly,  ye  bloom. 
I  need  no  figure.     Your  mortality — 


106  I  SLEEP,  BUT  MY  HEART  WAKETH. 

Dropped,  unreluctant,  that  ye  might  assume 

The  garments  woven  for  eternity, 
Heaven's  raiment — ye  have  given  unto  the  tomb. 

And  now  from  sighs,  for  sighs  e'en  vexed  ye,  free, 

Your  immortality  has  reached  the  better  land, 
Where  is  no  candle,  yet  is  known  no  gloom ; 

And  tears  are  wiped  away  by  God's  own  hand. 


I  SLEEP,  BUT  MY  HEART  WAKETH. 

Canticles,  v.  2. 

The  Church  is  slumbering.    She  that  once  awoke 
And  girded  on  her  beautiful  array, 
And  went  forth  terribly,  is  idle  ;  yea, 
Is  sleeping  now.     She  thinks  not  how  she  broke 
Her  dreamings  once,  and  shook  off  the  stern  yoke 
Of  Ignorance  and  Cruelty.     The  gloom 
Of  night  is  on  her — gone  is  that  fair  day. 

She  is  all  lovely — is  it  for  the  tomb  ! 

Will  not  the  few  sad  watchers  for  her,  pray 
That  everlasting  sleep  be  not  her  doom  ] 

That  in  her  silent  chamber  the  strong  ray 

Of  Life,  poured  down,  shall  cause  her  to  betake 
Herself  to  weeping  for  her  once  bright  bloom  ] — 

Church,  that  art  slumbering,  is  thy  heart  awake ! 


NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCHES.  107 


NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCHES. 

With  gracious  boon,  kind  Providence  has  blest 
New  England's  clime  with  health,  enjoyment's 

zest. 
Unscorched  by  torrid  heat  and  sultry  blast, 
The  bracing  North  confirms  her  ruddy  cast. 
The  glow  of  Temperance  marks  her  hardy  race, 
And  kindred  morals  own  their  honoured  place. 
Her  sons  are  generous,  shrewd,  and  faithful  too, 
Her  daughters  modest,  fair,  and  ever  true. 
Free  as  her  clime,  her  equal  laws  are  free, 
And  here  at  least  man  bows  no  abject  knee. 
The  slave  ship  never  can  pollute  her  strand, 
The  Negro's  tear  can  never  stain  that  land. 
Shame,  gracious  heaven !  that  bondmen  e'er  should 

toil 
With  withering  curse,  on  Freedom's  natal  soil. 

Go,  Retrospection  !  and  excursive  soar 
Where  numerous  towns  adorn  the  sea-girt  shore. 
See  clustering  hamlets  strew  the  verdant  plains, 
And  thriving  cities,  where  rich  Commerce  reigns. 
But  chiefly  see,  where  near  the  spreading  bay, 
The  proud  Metropolis  extends  its  sway. 


108  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCHES. 

See  scattered  round,  a  fair  and  goodly  show, 
Far  as  the  view,  a  paradise  below. 
The  smiling  fields,  the  teeming  hill  and  dale, 
Twin  mountains  there,  and  here  the  humble  vale. 
The  village  churches,  and  the  city  fane, 
The  halls  of  Science  on  the  smiling  plain. 
The  numerous  villas  by  refinement  reared, 
Abodes  of  taste,  to  elegance  endeared. 
Fair  Prospect-hill,  with  Bunker's  awful  steep, 
Where  'neath  her  altar  Freedom's  votaries  sleep. 
The  towering  domes  and  lofty  spires  that  rise, 
Whose  portals  lead  immortals  to  the  skies. 
The  kindly  roofs,  where  manners  bland  reside, 
And  courteous  ease,  a  city's  boast  and  pride. 
Loved,  generous  homes  !  where  opulence  combined 
With  ready  hearts,  displays  the  feeling  mind. 
The  lofty  pile,  where  Wisdom  oft  hath  shone, 
And  sapient  Eloquence  has  reared  her  throne; 
The  walk,  whose  elms  a  grateful  shade  disclose, 
The  Common,  wide,  where  Charles  romantic  flows ; 
The  masted  groves  with  whitened  canvass  spread, 
The  lengthened  piers,  that  rest  in  ocean's  bed, 
All  meet  the  sight,  and  crowding  on  the  view, 
Fill  the  wrapt  mind  with  pleasure  ever  new. 
Here  all  is  seen  to  heighten  or  refine, 
And  wealth  and  grandeur,  skill  with  taste  combine. 
Wide  Hospitality  extends  her  reign, 
And  kindly  feeling  dwells  in  Virtue's  train. 


NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCHES.  109 

Nor  are  her  views  where  nature  breathes  delight, 
Less  fraught  with  charms  and  pleasing-  to  the  sight. 
Fancy,  full  oft,  in  retrospect  would  stray 
Amid  those  scenes  that  saw  young  Childhood's  day; 
With  roving  thought  the  favourite  spot  would  view, 
Where  'mid  content  her  earliest  breath  she  drew; — 
Where  youthful  sports  beguiled  the  heedless  hours, 
And  halcyon  pleasure  smiled  through  all  her  bow- 
Fond  recollection  decks  the  rural  scene,  [ers. 
Nor  notes  the  blank  that  time  has  cast  between. 

Where  dark  waved  Merrimack  expands  its  flood, 
Below  its  source  the  humble  dwelling  stood. 
The  scene  was  fair,  and  sweet  to  fancy's  view, 
Beneath  the  mountain's  brow  sequestered  too. 
The  moss  grown  rock,  majestic,  reared  its  head, 
And  frowning  darkly,  deepening  grandeur  shed. 
The  crystal  stream,  whose  winding  course  betrayed 
Its  silent  current  stealing  'mid  the  glade ; 
The  beechen  tree,  the  favourite  spot  well  known, 
Where  village  sport  had  reared  its  simple  throne ; 
Where  oft  at  times  and  scenes  when  all  was  gay, 
Blithe  pleasure  reigned  in  rustic  holiday. 
And  oft  when  twilight's  gleam  had  sunk  afar, 
And  in  the  west  appeared  the  evening  star, 
WTith  minds  serene,  and  labour  all  forgot, 
Each  young  companion  sought  the  favourite  spot, 


110  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCHES. 

The  legend,  wild,  with  breathless  awe  to  share, — 
The  jocund  song,  or  weep  at  tales  of  care. 

With  rich  content  and  humble  quiet  blest, 
No  brooding  envy  marred  the  hamlet's  rest. 
No  sound  disturbed,  save  when  the  echoing  stroke 
Amid  the  wild,  the  sturdy  woodman  spoke. 
Or  when  afar  the  distant  rural  bell 
Marked  holy  time,  or  sighed  the  passing  knell, 
From  village  church,  whose  tall  and  reverend  fane 
Rose  o'er  the  vale,  and  gleamed  across  the  plain. 

Hallowed  the  spot !  e'en  now  methinks  I  feel 
The  holy  dread  that  o'er  each  thought  would  steal 
At  Sabbath  morn,  when  mingling  with  the  throng, 
I  joined  in  heart  and  raised  the  sacred  song. 
The  vocal  swell  that  poured  the  chant  of  love, 
The  suppliant  form,  the  prayer  that  rose  above ; 
The  warning  voice  when  Sinai  spake  alarm, 
The  strains  of  peace  that  whispered  Calvary's 

balm, — 
All  touched  the  heart,  and  drew  the  listening  ear, 
The  sigh  was  heard,  and  oft  was  seen  the  tear. 
The  flock  retired,  but  'twas  apart  to  pray, 
And  meditation  well  employed  the  day. 

For  me,  the  lonely  walk  possessed  a  charm, 
And  pleasing  solitude  could  care  disarm. 


NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCHES.         Ill 

And  oft  I  lingered  near  the  burial  ground, 
My  favourite  spot,  where  wrapt  in  thought  profound, 
I  wandered  sadly  'neath  the  elm  tree's  shade, 
Where  grassy  hillocks  told  that  life  must  fade. 
And  oft  I  watched  the  mournful  lengthening  train 
In  funeral  state,  pass  slowly  o'er  the  plain ; 
For  Death's  sure  arrow  found  this  calm  abode, 
The  man,  the  friend,  the  viewless  valley  trod. 
Around  the  grave  the  thoughtful  rustics  bend, 
And  oft  the  prayer  and  holy  hope  ascend. 
The  shepherd-pastor,  sorrowing  tears  t'  assuage, 
Speaks  consolation  from  the  sacred  page ; 
Tells  of  the  hopes  which  from  that  fountain  spring ; 
How  Jesus  rose,  and  foiled  the  tyrant's  sting ; 
How  brief  is  time,  how  long  the  bright  reward, 
And  blessed  are  all  that  slumber  in  the  Lord. 
The  mourner  weeps — but  weeps  in  humble  trust, 
And  well  resigned,  commits  the  dust  to  dust. 

At  twilight  hour,  the  household  train  repair, 
Together  join  and  meek  instruction  share. 
The  catechist  the  youthful  mind  employs, 
And  tells  of  Him  who  made  and  who  destroys. 
The  younger  listen  while  the  old  explore, 
With  reverence  due,  the  page  of  sacred  lore. 
In  strains  of  Zion  each  devoutly  blends, 
And  now,  with  fervent  prayer,  the  holy  Sabbath 
ends. 


11 '2  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCHES. 

"With  zealous  care  the  willino-  bard  would  tell 
Of  simple  customs  once  beloved  so  well. 
The  hallowed  day  of  sacred  Fast,  severe, 
To  plead  for  blessings  on  the  opening  year. 
Thanksgiving-  Day,  the  well  known  time  of  joy, 
When  care  was  lost  and  hushed  each  rude  employ ; 
When  beaming  bliss,  and  in  their  best  array. 
The  absent  youth  the  annual  visit  pay. 
That  morning,  all  arrayed  with  seemly  care. 
They  worship  humbly  in  the  house  of  prayer. 
At  home,  assembled  round  the  groaning  board, 
With  nature's  gifts  and  housewife's  labours  stored  ; 
Duly  arranged,  from  age  to  eager  youth, 
They  reverend  stand,  and  crave  with  earnest  truth 
A  kindly  blessing  from  the  Fount  of  Love, 
Whose  care,  paternal,  doth  such  act  approve  : 
And  then,  with  keen,  but  temperate  haste,  they 

share 
The  full  repast,  the  yeoman's  bounteous  fare. 
The  pleasant  jest,  the  cheerful  laugh  go  round  ; 
The  mutual  wish  with  mutual  hopes  is  crowned, 
For  church  and  country,  home  and  absent  friends, 
And  thanks  for  all  that  Heaven  in  mercy  sends. 
The  evening  hour  invites  to  sober  joy, 
And  varied  sports  that  charm,  but  never  cloy. 
The  lively  dance,  with  ancient,  mystic  game, 
Where  choice  betrays  the  modest  lover's  flame ; 


CHANGES.  113 

The  ready  wit,  the  mirth  inspiring  song, 
With  tales  of  old,  the  joyous  scenes  prolong; 
While  youthful  Love  and  Hymen  oft  delight 
To  join  the  bridal  with  the  festive  night. 


CHANGES. 

I,  a  silly  fly, 
That  live  or  die, 
According  as  the  weather  falls. 

George  Herbert. 

Ah,  Lord  !  thou  seest  how  changing,  still, 
Are  these  desires  and  hopes  of  mine ; 

How  slowly  turns  my  wayward  will 
From  Earth's  unreal  love,  to  Thine. 

Sometimes,  I  take  the  ready  wing 

Of  angels,  and  with  lofty  flight, 
Sail  round  the  upper  bowers,  where  sing 

To  starry  harps,  the  sons  of  light. 

Oh,  then,  how  ravishing  appears 

The  dwelling  of  the  spotless  Blessed ! 

I  gaze — and  shed  delicious  tears, 
And  long  with  them  to  be  at  rest. 

H 


114  CHANGES. 

All  peaceful  joys  seem  doubled  then; 

The  world's  behind,  and  all  forgot 
The  thousand  dreams  that  flatter  men ; 

Their  thousand  cares — I  know  them  not ! 

Yet,  soon,  of  pinions  shorn,  I  fall 

Down,  down,  a  dreary,  dreadful  way ; 

And  round  my  soul  is  wrapt  the  pall 
That  shuts  out  every  gleam  of  day. 

Then  Heaven  seems  parable,  or  far 
Far,  far  beyond  my  hopeless  aim ; 

And  dimmer  than  the  faintest  star, 

The  beams  that  cluster  round  thy  Name. 

My  God  !  I  would  no  longer  be 

Thus  foolish,  fickle,  false  and  vain ; 

Oh,  for  the  faith  that  soars  to  Thee, 
Nor  sinks  to  weary  Earth  again  ! 

1836. 


THE  CHURCH.  115 


THE  CHURCH. 

She  rose,  not  only  to  pray,  but  to  act,  and  from 
that  time  she  has  lengthened  her  cords,  and  strength- 
ened her  stakes.  More  than  four  hundred  of  her 
missionaries  are  among  the  heathen,  and  more  than 
two  hundred  churches  has  she  gathered  in  Pagan 
lands.  You  may  hear  God's  praises  in  the  western 
wilderness,  in  the  islands  of  the  Southern  Sea,  in 
Africa,  in  Ceylon,  and  in  India,  in  Astrachan,  and 
in  Greenland.  Hearken,  my  brethren,  and  you 
hear  the  Cherokee  and  Choctaw,  the  Hottentot  and 
Hindu,  the  Greenlander  and  Otaheitian,  all  min- 
gling their  praises  unto  Him  that  loved  us,  and 
washed  us  from  our  sins  in  His  blood,  and  hath 
made  us  kings  and  priests  unto  God,  and  his  Fa- 
ther ;  unto  Him  be  gloTy  and  dominion  for  ever 
and  ever. — Edwards's  Sermon, 

Yes,  she  has  risen  in  her  strength ; 

The  Church  !  the  Church  of  God 
Puts  on  her  robes  and  walks  at  length 

Where  her  great  Captain  trod. 
Her  path  is  by  the  barren  rock, 

Her  path  is  through  the  sea ; 


116  THE  CHURCH. 

He's  in  the  desert  with  his  flock, 
And  in  the  deep,  is  He. 

I  trace  her  in  the  lonely  Ark ; 

In  Abraham's  stranger  tent ; 
And  in  the  upper  chamber,  where 

The  Comforter  was  sent. 
And  while  her  troublers  and  their  deeds 

Pass  on,  and  are  entombed, 
I  see  her  towering — by  the  fire 

Encompassed,  not  consumed. 

Through  Persecution's  martyr  flame, 

Through  famine,  scathe  and  fears, 
Through  foul  reproach,  and  scorn  and  shame, 

And  blood,  and  bitter  tears — 
Still  onward,  onward,  is  her  way ; 

In  weakness  waxing  strong ; 
Her  proud  device,  the  Star  of  Day, 

And  Victory  her  song. 

I  see  her  toils,  abroad,  at  home, 

From  tropic  to  the  pole, — 
Wherever  swells  a  pagan  dome, 

Or  weeps  a  human  soul. 
The  temple  crumbles  at  her  might ; 

The  soul  to  Christ  is  given; 
And  where  hung  out  the  pall  of  night, 

Now  cluster  beams  of  heaven. 


THE  CHURCH.  117 

With  principalities  she  wars ; 

With  Satan's  leaguing  powers  ; 
She  scales  his  heights  and  plants  her  foot 

Upon  his  tallest  towers. 
And  fall  before  her  trumpets'  blast 

The  Dagons  of  renown ; 
And  at  her  stern  rebuke  are  cast 

The  shrine  and  priesthood  down. 

And  not  one  banner  of  her  train 

In  slumber  may  be  furled — 
Nor  shall  the  sword  return  again 

Drawn  out  to  free  a  world — 
Not  till  her  empress  step  is  found 

Where'er  is  found  the  ban ; 
Nor  till  her  cohorts  tread  each  ground 

Where  lingers  fallen  man. 

As  the  small  dust  is  to  the  globe, 

As  rain  drops  to  the  sea — 
So  is  her  glorious  Past,  to  what 

Her  Coming  yet  shall  be  ! 
Ask,  and  I'll  give,  saith  God,  for  spoil 

The  heathen  to  my  Son ; 
Fruit  of  his  travail  and  his  toil, 

Conceived  and  dared  and  done. 


118  THE  GRAVE. 


THE  GRAVE. 

God,  who  giveth  us  the  victory.— Paw/. 

It  is  a  thought  of  noble  joy ; 

Grave  !  where's  thy  terror  now  1 
Thy  reptile  may  these  limbs  destroy, 

Thy  damps  crowd  on  this  brow — 
Yet  is  God's  arm  beneath  my  head, 
He  holds  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 

'Tis  but  his  voice  of  love  that  calls ; 

How  privileged  to  die, 
When  mercy  breaks  these  ruined  walls 

And  gently  puts  us  by  ! 
My  God  will  lay  this  dust  away, 
Spirit !  thou'lt  find  it  in  his  day. 

Then  crumble,  flesh  !  my  soul,  long  pent, 

The  prisoner  of  sin — 
Sees,  joyfully,  through  every  rent, 

New  glories  bursting  in  : 
He  that  spake  out  the  world,  is  skilled 
This  house  in  beauty  to  rebuild. 


TO  THEE,  DEAR  VISION.  119 

Now  unto  me,  oh  sunlit  tomb  ! 

Thou  dost  invitings  wear : 
For  since  the  Conqueror  pierced  thy  gloom 

Has  victory  sparkled  there. 
Jesus  has  strewed  thy  couch  of  balm 
With  Resurrection's  holy  charm. 


TO  THEE,   DEAR   VISION,    GENIUS   OF 
THE  LYRE! 

To  thee,  dear  Vision  !  Genius  of  the  lyre  ! 
Thou  blest  Invisible,  that  fancy  doth  inspire, — 
Thou  fair  Unknown,  that  oft  celestially 
Has  cheered  this  bosom  with  thy  minstrelsy ; 
To  thee,  that  careless  lov'st  to  roam  among 
Elysian  groves  and  carol  Pleasure's  song, — 
Soothing  attendant  of  my  lonely  hours, 
That  oft  on  tears  has  scattered  balmy  flowers, — 
To  thee  I  wake  the  tributary  lay, 
And   o'er  thy  fairy   haunts,   with  lingering  step 
would  stray. 

Thou  know  est  how  sweet,  how  ever  dear  to  me, 
The  hallowed  moments,  given  to  bliss  and  thee ; 


120  TO  THEE,  DEAR  VISION. 

How  oft,  when  worn  with  toil,  or  vexed  with  care, 
To  thee  I've  flown,  and  found  a  solace  there. 
In  thy  soft  murmurs  have  I  sought  relief, 
Then  care  seemed  baseless,  all  disquiet  brief; 
The  minstrel  woke,  and  inspiration  stole 
"With  wavy  breathing  o'er  his  trembling  soul ; 
And  Memory  strayed  o'er  bowers  to  childhood 
known,  [its  own. 

And  still  would  smile  and  sigh  o'er  visions  once 

Fancy  with  thee  has  climbed  the  sacred  hill, 
Sought  Sharon's  shade, — by  sweet  Siloa's  rill 
Pondered  alone,  and  from  the  holy  tomb 
Plucked  the  wild  flower  that  buds  in  living  bloom. 

Thanks,  dear  Inspirer  !  love  is  well  thy  due ; 
'Tis  all  I  have — 'tis  much,  for  oh,  'tis  true. 
A  lowly  meed,  a  humble  lot  is  mine, 
Though  still  I  offer  at  Contentment's  shrine; 
And  this  is  all — I  wish  not  Riches'  spoil, 
While  thou  remainest,  sweet  nymph  !  companion 
of  my  toil. 


WHAT  SHALL  SATISFY  THE  MIND.  121 


WHAT  SHALL  SATISFY  THE  MIND ! 

When  pleasure  smiles  with  aspect  gay, 

And  bright  alluring-  mien ; 
When  joy  emits  its  cloudless  ray, 
While  darkening  storms  seem  far  away, 

And  all  is  bliss  serene  : 

When  friendship  cheers  with  sacred  charm, 

And  sympathy  sincere ; 
When  circled  in  affection's  arm, 
Whose  glance  can  bitter  griefs  disarm, 

And  smile  dispel  the  tear : 

When  all  that  glittering  wealth  can  boast, 

Or  laureled  fame  bestow — 
Unites  with  Science'  richer  zest, 
To  crown  the  favoured  votary  blest 

As  man  may  be  below  : 

0  say,  whence  is  the  secret  care 

That  rives  without  control ; 
That  spurns  each  bliss  as  empty  air, 
While  racked,  it  feels,  with  keen  despair, 

Vacuity  of  soul  ] 


122  THE  TOMB  OF  JESUS. 

Learn  mortal ! — the  expanding-  mind, 

That  essence  from  above, — 
Dread  Emanation! — is  designed 
To  feast  on  deathless  joys,  refined, 
And  drink  eternal  love. 


THE  TOMB  OF  JESUS. 

The  Mussulmans  in  Palestine  have  taken  pos- 
session of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  in  Jerusalem;  and  the 
Abbe  Forbin  Janson  has  proceeded  to  Constanti- 
nople, to  reclaim  from  the  Grand  Seignor  the  keep- 
ing of  the  Tomb  of  Jesus.  It  produces  an  annual 
income  of  two  hundred  and  sixty  thousand  dollars. 

On  Shinar's  plain  where  David's  gem  appeared, 
The  star  that  walked  yon  bright  serene  alone, — 
Whose    mystic    ray   the    Bethlehem    Shepherds 

cheered, 
While  angel  bands  in  blessed  effulgence  shone, 
With  radiance  flaming  from  the  ethereal  throne ; 
On  Shinar's  plain,  where  Siloa's  fountains  rise, 
Whose  murmuring  stream  glides  mournful  now  and 
The  holy  pilgrim  from  afar  descries  [lone, — 

The  Tomb  of  Jesus,  Lord  Supreme  of  earth  and 

skies. 


THE  TOMB  OF  JESUS.  123 

*Twas  there  the  Ancient  of  Eternal  Day, 
The  Son  of  God,  slept  in  the  borrowed  grave ; 
He  whose  right  arm,  clothed  with  almighty  sway, 
To  countless  worlds  their  form  and  being  gave, 
When  chaos  reigned  and  shoreless  was  the  wave. 
'Tis  hallowed  ground — proclaim  it  not! — for  there 
Is  crime — Calvary's  polluted  by  the  Islam  slave. 
A  scathing  curse  for  him  will  wrath  prepare, 
And  bolts  in  heaven  for  those  who  the  base  traffic 
share. 

0  soon  may  Shiloh  bless  that  fated  land  ! 

The  mocking  crescent  there  be  seen  no  more; 

The  lawless  wanderer  and  Arabia's  band 

Forsake  their  prophet  and  the  cross  adore, 

While  songs  of  joy  resound  on  Jordan's  shore. 

Soon  may  the  banner  of  Immanuel  wave 

On  every  height,  and  where  the  minarets  soar, 

Nations  confess  that  He  who  died  to  save, 

The  blessed  Messiah,  lives  and  reigns  for  evermore. 

1818. 


124  RELIGION  A.VD  RUM. 


RELIGION  AND  RUM. 

An  old  Turk,  learning  that  we  were  Americans, 
inquired  if  it  was  true  that  we  sent  out  Missionaries 
to  convert  the  Mohammedans,  in  ships  laden  with 
wine  and  spirits] — De  Kays  Sketches  of  Turkey. 

The  Christian  flouts  the  turbaned  Turk ; 

Why  mocketh  he  at  us! 
He  sendeth  hither  proud  ships  with 

A  blessing-  and  a  curse. 

His  spangled  flag  flings  out  its  stars 

Most  bravely  on  our  seas  : 
And  we  beneath  those  stripes  ma)"  pray, 

Or  traffic — as  we  please. 

Can  the  same  wells  of  Araby 

Yield  sweet  and  bitter  too  ? 
These  dumb  dogs,  laugh  they  at  our  beards  1 

Great  Allah  !  but  they  do. 

"  Ho !  come,  and  win  the  gems  of  Heaven  !" 

Their  dark-robed  Mollahs  cry ; 
Then  shout  their  fellows — "  We  have  Rum, 

And  Brandies  ;  will  ye  buy  V 


■ 


A  TIME  TO  WEEP,  A  TIME  TO  REJOICE.  125 

64  Kneel  to  Messiah  !  yours  are  crowns ; 

Reject — naught's  left  but  hell ;" 
44  Here's  fourth  proof — real  New  England,  sirs ; 

Try,  for  we  want  to  sell !" 

Prophet !  how  would  these  muftis  smile, 

Should  we  to  Christ  incline  ; 
Not  less  their  joy  if  we  exchange 

Good  sequins  for  their  wine. 

Houris  !  be  ours  the  precepts  which 

Content  the  faithful  Turk, 
Rather  than  creeds  in  which  base  gold 

Is  ever  found  to  lurk. 


A  TIME  TO  WEEP— A  TIME  TO  REJOICE. 

There  is  a  time  to  weep, 

When  dreams  of  earthly  pleasure 
Are  added  to  the  heap 

Of  faded,  fruitless  treasure : 
There  is  a  time — how  holy ! 

When  weeping  at  Christ's  door, 
The  sick  soul's  melancholy 

He  heals  with  Sin  no  more ! 


12ti         A  TIME  TO  WEEP,  A  TIME  TO  REJOICE. 

A  time  when  for  distress 
His  comfortings  are  given ; 

And  for  its  nakedness, 
The  garniture  of  heaven. 

There  is  a  time  of  grief, 

When  memory  weeps  in  sorrow ; 
The  heart,  to  find  relief, 

Oblivion's  draught  would  borrow: 
There  is  a  time  of  sweetness, 

The  soul,  drawn  out  alone, 
Reviews  its  own  unmeetness, 

And  sighs  before  the  throne  : 
There  is  a  time  of  love, 

The  raptured  heart  ne'er  feigneth, 
When,  strengthened  from  above, 

It  knows  its  Saviour  reigneth. 

There  is  a  time  to  mourn, 

When  all  is  wild  commotion ; 
And  man  discerns  the  bourne 

Of  death's  returnless  ocean : 
There  is  a  time  of  peace, — 

What  though  the  lamp  then  wasteth ! 
The  spirit  seeks  release, 

And  new-born  vigour  tasteth  : 
There  is  a  time  of  joy, 

When  the  pale  visage  alters, 


THE  DEPARTED  WIFE.  127 

When  songs  the  lips  employ, 
While  yet  the  accent  falters. 

There  is  a  time  of  sadness, 

When  nature  doth  decay ; 
Yet  to  the  soul  'tis  gladness, 

That  longs  to  be  away : 
There  is  a  time  when  years 

The  sand  no  longer  numbers, 
When  dewed  with  farewell  tears 

The  body  coldly  slumbers  : 
There  is  a  time  of  glory, 

When  ransomed  spirits  sing, 
O  Grave!  whir -e  is  thy  victory! — 

O  Death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 


THE  DEPARTED  WIFE. 

And  thou  hast  fled,  fair  spirit ! — True,  the  boon 
Of  thy  perfections  was  too  rich  for  earth : — 
Ye  we  lament  that  worth  so  rare,  thus  soon, 
Thus  suddenly,  is  blighted. — Yes,  the  birth, 
So  promising,  of  thy  mild  graces,  proves 
For  heaven. — The  tomb  conceals  our  fondest  hope. 


128  THE  DEPARTED  WIFE. 

Yet  in  the  heart's  retirement,  spirit !  thou 
Still  liv'st.     There  contemplative  fancy  loves 
Still  to  behold  thee — with  the  unbounded  scope 
Of  chastened  love,  there  she  beholds  thee  now. 

Thou  livest ; — Faith  discerns  thee  'mid  the  choir 
That  minister  above. — Thy  robes  of  white, 
Emblem  of  the  sweet  purity  that  loved  to  reign 
Within  thy  bosom,  tell  that  thou  art  one 
Of  the  celestial  sisterhood,  whose  lyre 
Wakes  the  first  song  in  heaven.  The  gems  of  light 
Sparkle  around  thee,  while  thou  tread'st  yon  plain 
Of  bliss,  ineffable.     0,  who  would  shun 
The  invitation  to  his  place  on  high, 
Were  it — like  thee,  to  live — like  thee,  to  die  1 
Thou' rt  absent,  mourned  one ! — but  memory  will 
Embody  thee,  and  in  his  vigils,  oft, 
Shalt  thou  to  thy  bereaved,  minister, 
And  calm  his  midnight  anguish. — In  the  dream 
Of  tenderness  shalt  thou  address  him.     Soft 
And  soothing,  gentle  one !  will  be  the  stir 
Of  recollections  in  his  widowed  heart ;   the  theme 
Shall  solace  him,  for  all  of  loveliness 
That  once  adorned — spirit !  adorns  thee  still. 
O,  sweet  to  him  that  treads  life's  wilderness, 
A  pilgrim  mourner,  drooping  and  alone — 
Sweet  is  thy  cordial,  Memory !  thou  canst  pour 
The  balm  of  Gilead  on  the  wounded.     Thou 


THE  OLD  SOLDIER.  129 

Canst  chase  the  chill  drop  from  the  sufferer's  brow, 

And  bid  renew  the  endearments  known  before. 

Thou  call'st  thy  vision — she,  who  late  had  flown, 

Returns  again,  and  'tis  to  heal  the  heart. 

And  she  is  near,  and  now  a  balmy  smile 

She  gives  to  her  beloved,  and  awhile 

He,  happy,  feels  not  the  soul  rankling  dart. 

Peace  to  the  dead ! — Beneath  yon  grassy  mound, 
In  slumber,  thou  reclinest ;  and  so  deep, 
So  calm  and  holy  is  thy  rest,  profound, 
We  would  not,  dare  not  break,  sweet  one!  thy  sleep. 
There  rest ! — and  we  will  bid  the  wild  flower  grow 
Upon  thee,  and  her  green  shall  Summer  throw 
Around  thy  bed. — Nor  shall  the  wintry  storm, 
Careering  o'er  thee,  thy  fair  couch  deform. 
There  rest,  till  reeling  Nature's  cries  disclose 
Hope's  morn  to  them  that  peacefully  repose. 


THE  OLD  SOLDIER. 

I  marked  him  once,  and  that  dim  eye, 
Methought,  could  tell  of  hidden  wo ; 

I  saw  no  tear,  I  heard  no  sigh ; 

The  sigh  was  hushed,  no  tear  could  flow. 

I 


130  THE  EUCHARIST. 

His  form  was  decked  in  misery's  garb, 
That  idly  mocked  the  storm's  control ; 

His  heart  was  torn — neglect's  keen  barb, 
With  cruel  fang,  had  pierced  his  soul. 

Yet  no  sad  tale  the  soldier  told, — 
His  prayer,  my  country!  was  for  thee ; 

Meekly  resigned,  though  basely  sold 
To  grief,  contempt,  and  poverty. 

Yes,  those  that  never  met  the  foe, 

That  never  warmed  with  freedom's  flame, 

Could  bravely  crush  the  warrior  low, 
Could  spurn  the  hoary  veteran's  claim. 

I  saw  the  passing  flood  of  years 
Bear  him  to  some  forgotten  grave ; 

For  him,  affection  had  no  tears, 
No  sigh  was  given  to  the  brave. 


THE  EUCHARIST. 

Come  to  the  Festival !  ye  that  are  straying 
Far  from  your  Father's  house,  faint  and  unfed ; 

Here  is  sufficiency, — souls,  thus  obeying, 
Hunger  no  more  for  the  perishing  bread. 


THE  EUCHARIST.  131 

Come  to  the  Festival !  ye  that  have  panted 
After  the  water  brooks ;  here  is  supply ; 

Streams  in  the  wilderness  Mercy  has  granted, — 
Those  that  have  tasted  them  never  can  die. 

Come  to  the  Festival !  ye  that  are  broken — 

Leaving  the  path  in  impiety  trod  ; 
Hope  beckons  cheerfully  ;  here  is  her  token — 

Joy  in  the  Spirit,  forgiveness  with  God. 

Come  to  the  Festival !    lingerers  in  sorrow, 
Sorer  and  sadder  than  heart  can  endure, — 

Balm  from  Earth's  comforters  seek  not  to  borrow, 
Come  where  the  Saviour  is  waiting  to  cure. 

Come,  while  the  Angel  is  troubling  the  waters ; 

Others  as  helpless  are  now  stepping  in ; 
Free  for  the  vilest  of  Guilt's  sons  and  daughters, — 

Here  may  ye  lose  the  defilement  of  sin. 

Kneel ! — Here  is  raiment  for  those  that  in  sadness, 
Naked  and  homeless,  have  wandered  forlorn ; 

Gems  are  here  sparkling  for  foreheads  of  gladness, 
Clasped  by  the  Giver  whose  own  felt  the  thorn. 

Kneel ! — though  in  fearful  ness,  weak,  yet  believing, 
Think  of  the  bosom  that  drank  your  despair, — 


132  THE  UNHALLOWED  GRAVE. 

And  while  in  penitence  memory  is  grieving, 
Lay  all  your  tears  and  despondency  there. 

Hark!  o'er  the  Eucharist,  music  is  stealing, 
Sweetly,  in  whispers  of  pardoning  love ; 

Ye  that  here  name  Me,  your  covenant  sealing, 
Gird  for  the  banquet  in  temples  above ! 


THE  UNHALLOWED  GRAVE. 

Suggested  by  some  exculpatory  stanzas,  attributed 
to  the  pen  of  Mrs.  Beauchamp,  who,  in  the  sum- 
mer of  1826,  in  Kentucky,  committed  suicide  a 
short  time  previous  to  the  execution  of  her  hus- 
band for  the  murder  of  her  former  betrayer ;  to 
which  deed  he  was  instigated  by  her  unprinci- 
pled revenge.  They  were  both  young — were 
devoted  to  each  other — and,  according  to  their 
request,  were  buried  in  one  coffin. 

Shall  angel  Pity  plead  above 

For  crime  unwept,  nor  thunders  chide 

The  bitter  hate,  the  unholy  love, 
That  nerved  the  reckless  Suicide  1 


THE  Ux\H ALLOWED  GRAVE.  133 

Thou  soul  wrecked  one ! — whose  was  the  form 
Of  beauty,  matched  with  lofty  mind — 

Yet,  passion  stirred,  who  woke  the  storm 
Of  desolation  to  thy  kind ; 

Erred'st  thou! — Alas  to  err  is  ours, — 
Why  sought' st  thou  not  the  Gilead  near  ! 

The  blot  that  dims  earth's  guiltiest  hours 
Is  washed  away  by  Sorrow's  tear. 

Dishonoured  ! — lost  life's  diadem  ! — 
Yet  Mercy,  lingering  nigh,  is  seen ; 

Heaven's  coronal  can  boast  no  gem 
Brighter  than  griefs  of  Magdalen. 

Vengeance ! — 0  God,  shall  mortals  bare 
The  arm,  and  Thy  red  terrors  wield  1 — 

Rouse  Retribution  from  his  lair, 
And  to  revenge,  relentless,  yield  ] 

No,  these  rest  not  the  lowly  head 
Where  innocence  and  peace  do  lie ; 

Nay,  plant  not  flowers  upon  their  bed, 
The  rose  would  wither  there  and  die. 

Yet  where  stern  Passion's  martyrs  sleep, 
Now  cleaving  to  unconscious  clay, — 


134  THE  PIRATE  SHIP. 

Shall  pure  and  pitying  Woman  weep  ; 
'Tis  not  in  her  to  turn  away. 

Oh,  her  warm  heart  can  never  shun 
Thoughts,  that  these  victims  unto  ill, 

These  buried  outcasts — lost — undone, 
Were  fellow  flesh,  were  human  still. 


THE  PIRATE  SHIP. 

Midnight  ! — On  the  quiet  ocean 
Calmly  sleeps  the  starry  beam ; 

Steady  is  the  barque's  proud  motion, 
Peaceful  is  the  sailor's  dream. 

Sailor,  wake  thee !  death  is  near, 
Wake  thee  from  deceitful  sleep  ; 

Sailor !  ere  the  dawn  appear, 
Thou  shalt  slumber  in  the  deep. 

Lightly  on  the  riven  wave, 

Bounding  swift,  with  murderous  mien, 
Ploughing  o'er  its  victim's  grave, 

Lo,  the  Pirate  Ship  is  seen ! 


THE  PIRATE  SHIP.  135 

Spawned  from  Guilt's  infernal  womb, 

Lurk  around  the  savage  crew ; 
On  each  brow,  the  fiend  of  gloom 

Stamps  its  seal,  to  horror  true. 

Luxury  of  crime  is  theirs, 

Dead  to  feeling,  as  to  fear ; 
Cruelty  each  bosom  shares, 

Banqueting  on  sorrow's  tear. 

Gold  their  idol,  to  the  god 

Nightly,  fearful  orgies  rise ; 
Rites,  accursed,  steeped  in  blood, 

Mark  the  human  sacrifice. 

Like  a  demon,  ripe  from  hell, 

See  the  chieftain  stalk  apart ; 
Hark,  his  voice  !  'tis  misery's  knell, 

Pity  never  touched  his  heart. 

Dear  to  him  is  childhood's  moan, 

Woman's  shriek  to  him  is  bliss ; 
Mercy  never  fixed  her  throne 

In  a  bosom  seared  like  this. 

Now  with  crime  accursed  mirth, 
Horrid  laughter  startles  thee ; 


136        THOU  SLEEPEST,  GENTLE  BOY. 

Drunk  with  blood,  the  stain  of  earth 
Join  in  fearful  revelry. 

Sailor,  wake  thee  !  death  is  near, 
Wake  thee  from  deceitful  sleep  ; 

Sailor !  ere  the  dawn  appear, 
Thou  shalt  slumber  in  the  deep. 


THOU  SLEEPEST,  GENTLE  BOY. 

Thou  sleepest,  gentle  boy !  and  thy  green  bed 

Is  undisturbed.     The  dream  of  innocence 

Is  thine,  for  thou,  to  the  fond  eye 

Of  watchful  love,  bloomed'st  not  more  gracefully 

In  form,  than  in  luxuriance  of  mind. 

Thou  sleepest,  gentle  boy !  and  leav'st  a  void 

In  aching  hearts.    Ah,  our  sad  thoughts  will  oft 

Dwell  on  the  soothing  retrospect  of  worth, 

Once  thine,  and  in  communion,  sweet, 

Will  we  hold  dalliance  with  thee,  sainted  one ! 

For  thou  art  not  far  from  us — thou  wouldst  not 

Leave  those  that  dearly  loved — that  love  thee  still. 

Thou'rt  near  in  vision,  though  ascended,  where 

The  robe  of  Immortality  is  wrought. 


DAYS  DEPARTED.  137 

Thou  stray'st  in  fields  of  fadeless  verdure  now, — 
The  flower  thou  gatherest  knew  not  the  blast. 
Thine  is  the  clime,  whose  aromatic  sweets, 
Excelling  Araby,  breathe  genial  gales 
To  the  entranced  soul.     Thrice  happy  thou, 
Young  traveller  !     We  would  not  call  thee  back 
To  this  cold,  comfortless  sojourn.     O  no, 
Enfranchised  one  !  we  ask  not  thy  return. 
Thou  hast  departed,  therefore  we  will  weep, — 
Thou'st  journeyed  on,  we  linger  still  behind, 
Yet  soon  to  follow — therefore  we  will  weep 
No  more,  dear  absent  one  !  but  wait  the  car 
That  shall  convey  us,  longing,  to  thy  arms. 


DAYS  DEPARTED,  WHITHER  FLED? 

Days  departed  !  whither  fled  1 

Moments  !   whither  have  ye  gone  1 
Ye  are  mingled  with  the  dead, 

Numbered,  never  to  return  : 
Time  !  how  swiftly,  silently, 

Hast  thou  urged  thy  mystic  flight 
To  unknown  eternity, 

To  the  whelming  flood  of  night ! 


138  DAYS  DEPARTED. 

Dying-  Year !  and  is  this  all  1 

Shuts  thy  scene  in  chilling  gloom  1 
Yes,  and  Nature  weaves  her  pall, 

Year,  departing  !  for  thy  tomb. 
Here  shall  sleep  the  shadowy  fears, 

Here  the  triumphs  of  thy  span ; 
Here  shall  slumber  smiles  and  tears, 

Here  the  dreams  of  passing  man. 

Schemes  of  bliss  that  rose  awhile, 

Griefs  that  clouded  life's  career, 
Joys  that  dazzled  to  beguile, 

Crushed  alike,  ye  perish  here. 
Sleep  they  all ! — shall  none  revive  ! 

Year  !  then  where  thy  trophies,  say  1 
What  shall  in  thy  annals  live, — 

Live,  when  Time  hath  passed  away ! 

Shall  the  deaf 'ning  battle  shout, 

Urging  on  to  victory  ? 
Shall  the  victim's  blood,  poured  out 

To  the  idol  deity ! 
Furl  thy  banner,  Glory  !  furl  it, 

Trophy  of  the  slaughter  ground ; 
Time,  the  conqueror,  shall  hurl  it 

To  Oblivion's  dark  profound. 

Stands  the  proud  man's  dwelling,  reared 
On  the  wreck  of  poverty  ] 


DAYS  DEPARTED.  139 

Triumphs  yet  the  oppressor,  seared, 

Mocking-  tears  of  misery  1 
Yet  the  flame  of  Envy  burnetii, 

In  that  breast  broods  hateful  vice ; 
Wretch  accursed  ! — sweet  Mercy  spurneth 

The  cold  heart  of  Avarice. 

Perish  these — let  none  revive  ! 

Year !  then  where  thy  trophies,  say  1 
What  shall  in  thy  annals  live, — 

Live,  when  Time  hath  passed  away  ] 
Saw  ye  not  Compassion's  deed, 

When,  to  sooth  a  brother's  moan, 
Pity  flew  to  misery's  need  1 — 

'Tis  recorded  near  the  throne  ! 

Heard  ye  not  the  balmy  voice, 

Grateful  as  the  dew  of  heaven, — 
When  a  brother  bade  "  rejoice  !" 

"  Sin  no  more,  and  be  forgiven  !" 
Dying  Year !  then  not  in  vain, 

Meteor  like,  thou'st  glided  by ; 
Moments  !  ye  shall  live  again, 

Deeds  of  mercy  never  die. 


140  FRANCES. 


FRANCES. 

Yes,  thou  wast  called,  and  who  could  save ! 

Cut  down  in  morning's  careless  hour, 
We  bear  thee  to  an  early  grave, 

Earth  bosoms  not  a  lovelier  flower. 
We  weep, — how  vain  the  bitter  tear ! 

Lament, — how  fruitless  is  the  sigh  ! 
0,  shall  we  never  learn  that  here 

The  germs  of  promise  bud  to  die  1 

Thou  wast  the  hope  of  waning  years, 

Valued,  and  friendship  knows  how  well ; 
Beloved — alas,  a  mother's  tears, 

A  mother's  love  alone  can  tell. 
Who  weeps  not,  when  corruption  takes 

Its  slumber  in  the  rayless  tomb  1 
0,  who  shall  weep,  when  beauty  wakes, 

In  gladness,  to  immortal  bloom  ! 

Shall  loveliness,  sweet  girl !  like  thine, 
Expand  its  beauties  but  to  fade  1 

Speak,  Frances  !  say,  at  yonder  shrine 
Thou  minist'rest,  a  vestal  maid  : 


SAVED  BY  OUR  INSTRUMENTALITY.  141 

The  intellectual  graces  given, 

The  mental  charms  that  love  excite, 

Can  never  die — exhaled  to  heaven, 

They  glow,  the  quenchless  gems  of  light. 

Farewell !  we  ask,  dear  relics  !  not 

The  sculptured  marble  to  adorn 
Thy  grave,  nor  for  the  hallowed  spot, 

The  monument  or  lettered  urn  ; 
But  while  Decay  feeds  on  thy  brow, 

And  damp  and  darkness  linger  there, 
Within  the  heart's  retirement,  thou 

Shalt  live  in  form  and  graces  fair. 


SAVED  BY  OUR  INSTRUMENTALITY. 

If  in  some  fair  and  jewelled  crown 

That  to  the  blest  redeemed  is  given, 
Are  stars  that  cast  their  brightness  down, 

Loveliest  among  the  gems  of  Heaven — 
It  is  the  diadem  he  wears, 

Who  woke  and  watched  for  souls  below ; 
Striving  to  save,  by  tears  and  prayers, 

Immortals  from  immortal  wo. 


142  SAVED  BY  OUR  INSTRUMENTALITY. 

If,  stealing  on  the  angels'  hymn, 

Come  harmonies  of  softer  wires, 
In  tones,  to  ears  of  seraphim, 

Sweeter  than  their  own  silver  lyres — 
It  is  when  saved  ones  tell  above 

Of  him  who  came  when  hope  had  flown; 
And  pointed  to  a  Saviour's  love, 

And  led  the  sinner  to  the  throne. 

0,  holy  God  !  while  flies  beyond 

Wide  swelling  seas,  that  Truth  of  Thee, 
Which  melts  down  every  slavish  bond, 

And  from  dark  idols  wins  the  knee — 
Engage  our  youthful  hearts,  that  long 

To  labour  in  this  holy  strife ; 
And  dearer  boon  than  crown  and  song 

Is  ours — Thy  favour,  which  is  Life. 


THE  BIBLE  SHIP.  143 


THE  BIBLE  SHIP. 


I  beseech  you,  if  you  have  influence  among  the 
opulent  Christians  in  America,  to  consider  the 
practicability  of  a  Bible  ship,  to  navigate  the 
shores  of  eastern  Asia.  If  Science,  and  Discovery, 
and  Luxury,  and  Commerce,  have  their  ships 
sailing  the  ocean,  and  visiting  every  shore,  why 
should  it  be  thought  strange  that  the  Christian 
should  also  have  his  ship  to  convey  to  man  the 
written  mandate  of  his  Maker — the  message  of 
mercy  from  the  Saviour  of  the  world ! 

The  late  Dr.  Morrison,  of  China, 

Fling  out  our  banners  to  the  breeze  ! 

Be  every  sail  unfurled  ! 
Our  ship  must  cleave  the  farthest  seas, 

And  search  the  heathen  world. 

Pipe  up  all  hands  ! — the  boatswain's  cry 

Rang  never  cheer  like  this  ; 
We're  off — we  proudly  rise  on  high, 

And  stoop  to  the  abyss. 

Speed  on  ! — We  steer  for  lovely  isles, 
Where  lies  of  guilt  the  ban ; 


I 


144  THE  BIBLE  SHIP. 

And  sunny  continents,  where  smiles 
Each  gladsome  thing,  but  man. 

And  Africa,  the  clime  of  night, 

And  shores  by  Chinese  trod, 
Shall  joy  for  us  ;  we  bring  true  light — 

The  priceless  word  of  God. 

Speed  on  the  King's  discovery  ship  ! 

She  seeks  not  vassal  ground ; 
Nor  scans  the  varying  needle's  dip — 

The  lost,  the  lost  is  found  ! 

Speed  on  !  speed  on ! — a  thousand  sail 

Are  flapping  on  the  mast, 
For  dark  lands  soon  to  breast  the  gale, 

God's  Bible  there  to  cast. 

Speed  on  !  speed  on ! — the  broad  blue  deeps 

Shall  hastening  heralds  bear 
To  every  pagan  coast,  where  weeps 

A  soul  in  sin's  despair. 

Oh  God,  to  see  their  canvass  speck 

Like  birds,  the  distant  seas ! 
Oh  God,  to  see  each  noble  deck 

Thronged  by  the  feet  of  these  ! 


THE  BELL  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  145 


THE  BELL  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

On  the  old  State  House  Bell,  in  Philadelphia, 
which  was  cast  in  that  city,  several  years  before 
the  American  Revolution,  is  the  following-  pro- 
phetic inscription :  "  Proclaim  liberty  throughout 
all  the  land,  unto  all  the  inhabitants  thereof." — 
Leviticus  xxv.  10.  The  ringing  of  this  bell  gave 
the  first  intelligence  of  the  signing  of  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence. 

'Twas  fitting,  that,  throughout  the  land, 

The  anointed  bell  proclaim 
The  triumphs  of  a  glorious  band, 

And  their  invaders'  shame  : 
'Twas  fitting,  that  its  merry  peal 

Should  fling  out  silver  tones, 
That  did,  before,  the  word  reveal 

So  terrible  to  thrones. 

Talk  not  of  chance  !  the  word  that  went 

To  Israel's  tribes  of  yore, 
Free  as  the  winds  of  heaven,  was  sent 

To  this  far  western  shore  : 
K 


146      THE  BELL  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

Our  fathers  spake  it  in  distress — 

A  small  and  feeble  flock — 
They  hymned  it  in  the  wilderness, 

And  wrote  it  on  the  rock. 

Talk  not  of  chance !  for  well  he  knew,— 

The  founder — that  his  art 
Graved  only  here  the  impress  true, 

Already  on  the  heart : 
And  well  he  deemed  that  liberty 

Should  one  day  wake  the  sword, — 
Around  the  hearths  of  all  the  Free 

It  was  a  cherished  word, 

Known,  not  in  vain  imaginings, 

To  wake  up  idle  strife ; 
But  treasured  as  a  holy  thing, 

Dearer  to  heart  than  life. 
Marvel  not  then,  the  voice  thus  pent 

Within  the  conscious  breast, 
At  times,  through  some  unguarded  vent 

Should  rush  forth  unrepressed. 

Interpreted,  it  truly  told 

Of  high  Oppression's  knell ; 

Of  banners  beckoning,  garments  rolled 
In  blood — that  warning  Bell ! 


TO  A  NUN'.  147 

Yea,  also,  that  from  martyr  graves 

Columbia's  living  seed 
Should  spring — the  scourge  of  sceptred  slaves, 

The  bulwark  of  her  need. 

Talk  not  of  chance !    Not  only  here, 

Forth  goes  the  unerring  sound ; — 
It  stirs  another  hemisphere, 

A  world  shall  be  unbound  ! 
And  children,  rescued  from  the  yoke, 

Shall  to  their  children  tell 
Of  the  immortal  deed  that  woke 

The  Revolution's  Bell. 


TO  A  NUN. 

The  ceremonies  attendant  upon  taking  the  Black 
Veil  were  recently  performed  at  the  Convent  in 
Georgetown,  when  the  vows  that  are  to  separate 
her  from  the  world,  were  taken  by  a  lady,  who  took 
the  White  Veil  a  year  since. 

Thou  seek'st  a  world  of  grief,  to  shun 

In  yon  seclusion,  where 
The  day  is  ended,  as  begun, 

With  holy  hymn  and  prayer : 


148  TO  A  NUN. 

'Tis  well,  the  pageantry  to  flee, 
That  years  have  empty  shown ; 

The  bosom  is  from  tumult  free, 
That  beats  for  Heaven  alone. 

Yet,  deem'st  thou  consecrated  walls 

Can  shut  out  thoughts  of  sin  ? 
Dead  to  the  world's  alluring  calls, 

Hear' st  thou  no  voice  within  1 
Hath  Fancy  ne'er  at  vesper  song, 

In  haunts,  forbidden,  trod  1 — 
Yea,  where  thou  kneel'st,  do  tears  belong 

Wholly,  unto  thy  God  1 

Buried  within  thy  solitude, 

Unseen  by  mortal  eye, 
Say  not  that  ill  cannot  intrude, 

Nor  folly  ne'er  be  nigh : 
0,  think ! — though  painful  be  her  heed, 

Who  fears  'neath  guilt  to  bow ; 
Dearer  to  God  that  well  won  meed, 

Than  vestal  robe  or  vow. 


THE  LAST  DRUNKARD.  149 


THE  LAST  DRUNKARD. 

He  stood,  the  last — the  last  of  all 

The  ghastly,  guilty  band, 
Whose  clanking  chain  and  cry  of  thrall 

Once  rang  throughout  the  land. 

Alone,  he  stood — the  outcast  wretch, 

Left  only  with  his  pain ; 
Of  each  boon  friend,  could  memory  fetch 

To  thought,  not  one  again. 

He  stood — but  where  was  now  the  host, 

The  mighty  giant  throng, — 
That  late  in  columns  to  the  lost, 

Had  moved  with  jibe  and  and  song] 

The  hoary,  yet  dishonoured  head — 
And  manhood's  dark  locks,  where  1 

And  Woman,  too,  by  error  led 
That  broad  way  to  despair 1 

Where  were  they  all ! — the  sweeping  blast 
Had  burnt  their  life  blood  up  ; 


150 


THE  LAST  DRUNKARD. 


Health,  reason,  honour  died,  as  past 
The  simoom  of  the  cup  ! 

And  he  alone — alone !  sad  glance 

Threw  hurriedly  around ; 
And  earth  and  sky  held  mocking  dance, 

And  upward  came  a  sound — 

A  sound  of  mortal  agony  ; 

Upon  his  ear  it  fell ; 
A  bitter  and  undreamed-of  cry, 

With  mingled  laugh  of  hell. 

As  if  were  centred  in  that  yell 

All  of  the  misery 
Which  broken  hearts  can  only  tell, — 

Which  God  can  only  see. 


It  calls  him !  and,  probation  past, 
He  shouts,  "  Ye  Fiends !  I  come- 

Open  foul  pit  and  take  the  last, 
The  last  doomed  slave  of  Rum !" 


miriam's  song.  151 


MIRIAM'S  SONG. 

And  Miriam  the  prophetess,  the  sister  of  Aaron,  took  a  timbrel 
in  her  hand  :  and  Miriam  answered  them,  Sing  ye  to  the  Lord,  for 
he  hath  triumphed  gloriously.— Exod.  xv.  20,  21. 

Sing  ye  to  Him  whose  wondrous  power, 

Arrayed  in  viewless  dread — 
Hath  blighted  the  Egyptian's  flower, 

And  strewed  his  place  with  dead. 

Sing  ye  to  him  who  walled  the  path, 

That  ransomed  Israel  trod  ; 
And  brought  again  the  billowy  wrath, 

At  his  Almighty  rod. 

Sing  ye  to  Him  who  rode  the  cloud, 

And  turned  the  night  to  day ; 
Who  crushed  the  chariots  of  the  proud ; 

Whose  pillar  led  the  way. 

Sing  to  the  Lord  !  whose  arm  alone 

Hath  cleft  the  foaming  sea ; 
The  horse  and  rider  overthrown, 

And  set  the  captive  free. 


152  THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS. 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS. 


There  still  exists  a  plant  in  Palestine,  known 
among  botanists  by  the  name  of  the  Thorn  of 
Christ,  supposed  to  be  the  shrub  which  afforded 
the  crown  worn  by  the  Saviour  at  his  crucifixion. 
It  has  many  small  sharp  prickles,  well  adapted  to 
give  pain,  and  as  the  leaves  greatly  resemble  those 
of  ivy,  it  is  not  improbable  that  the  enemies  of 
Messiah  chose  it,  from  its  similarity  to  a  plant 
with  which  Emperors  and  Generals  were  accus- 
tomed to  be  crowned ;  and  thence  that  there  might 
be  calumny,  insult,  and  derision,  meditated  in  the 
very  act  of  punishment. — Dr.  RusseWs  Palestine. 

Glory  prepared  a  wreath 
Of  simple  laurel  for  her  favourite  son ; 
And  Beauty's  spicy  lips  were  wont  to  breathe 
His  name,  who  at  the  Grecian  games  had  won  : 

Glory  impearled  the  crown 
That  rimmed  the  brows  of  Muscovy's  great  czar ; 
When  on  a  new  born  empire  he  looked  down 
From  dazzling  height,  like  some  superior  star : 


THE  CROWN  OF  THORNS.  153 

Glory  doth  pluck  the  leaf 
For  Learning's  martyr,  and  her  fond  acclaim, 
He,  pale  with  midnight  toil,  esteems  the  chief 
Of  earthly  good — and  calls  the  bauble  fame. 

But  the  mean  diadem 
That  tells  of  calumnies,  insults,  and  scorns, 
Hath  splendour  dimming  these,  although  no  gem 
Be  woven  in  the  coronal  of  thorns. 

Sharp  were  its  cruel  points, 
That  cinctured  the  blest  forehead  of  the  Christ, 
Forcing  thence  blood  ;  the  crimson  that  anoints 
And  heals — unction  all-potent  and  unpriced  ! 

Glory  is  His,  0  Crown  ! 
Who  wore  thee  meekly  once — when  from  dark 

ways 
Of  sin,  the  sinner  fleeing,  falleth  down 
In  lowly  penitence,  and  weeps  and  prays. 

The  men  that  platted  thee 
For  that  sad  coronation,  in  His  blood 
Washed  from  their  crime,  confessed  his  Deity — 
Mysterious  God  in  Man,  the  Man  in  God. 

Millions  that  knew  him  not, 
Since  then,  have  had  sweet  knowledge  of  the  cross : 


154  THE  CHURCH  IS  THERE. 

He  hath  been  found  of  them  that  sought  him  not; 
And  they  that  sought,  have  deemed  all  else  but 
loss. 

I,  when  some  sore  distress 
Racks  this  decaying'  body,  do  bethink 
Me  of  thee,  painful,  wondrous  Crown !  and  bless 
The  cup,  whose  dregs  I  may  not  choose  but  drink. 


THE  CHURCH  IS  THERE! 

That  tossing  vessel's  silver  wake, 

Thine  eye  discerns  no  more ; 
A  storm  has  gathered  on  the  lake, 

And  sullen  is  its  roar. 

Why  sinks  not  the  devoted  bark 

Beneath  that  boiling  sea  1 
Why  o'er  those  men  close  not  the  dark 

Wild  waves  of  Galilee  1 

The  Church  is  there ! — He  who  doth  keep 

W'ithin  his  fists  the  wave, 
Doth  rouse  him,  like  the  strong,  from  sleep, 

His  followers  to  save. 


THE  CHURCH  IS  THERE.  155 

Still  breasts  the  bark  the  troublous  gale ; 

She's  on  the  flood  of  time ; 
How  fearful  is  the  tempest's  wail ! 

How  high  the  waters  climb  ! 

She's  on  the  deep  ; — though  her  beset 
Fierce  storms  that  prowl  the  seas, 

There's  One  that  never  doth  forget 
To  lull  them  to  a  breeze. 

And  ever  as  the  winds  increase, 

When  nearest  is  despair, 
His  voice  cries  through  the  thunders,  "  Peace!" 

The  Church — the  Church  is  there  ! 

When  mighty  are  the  thralls  of  sin, 

And  tall  and  strong  is  pride, 
'Tis  safe  with  her  to  be  shut  in, 

And  o'er  the  danger  ride. 

Amid  the  sweep  of  whelming  waves, 

Amid  the  tempest's  stir, — 
Beneath  His  wings  whose  presence  saves, 

May  I  be  found  with  her ! 


156 


REV.  A- 


Thou  wast  brought  down  by  sickness.     In  thy 

youth — 
In  thy  fresh  vigour — in  the  midst  of  toil 
And  usefulness,  God  touched  thee.    Racking  pain 
And  conflict,  sharp,  came  on  thee.     We  beheld 
Our  leader  taken  from  the  wonted  place 
Of  holy  ministering,  and  on  the  bed 
Of  anguish  cast, — yet,  sweetly  there  to  teach 
His  flock,  by  patient  willingness,  to  choose 
A  Father's  will.     We  felt  in  our  deep  need, 
Already  shepherdless.     We  feared  that  thou 
No  more  unto  thy  gathered  ones  wouldst  break 
The  living  Bread,  nor  lead  them  by  the  streams 
Of  free  salvation.     But  for  thee,  we  knew 
Our   loss   must  needs   be   gain.     We  wept,  we 

prayed. — 
The  secret  sigh  of  those  whom  thou  hast  led 
To  Zion,  brake  forth  for  thee.     The  heart's  cry, 
So  deep,  so  powerful,  went  up  for  thee. 
God  heard  and  answered  ;  and  his  strong  rebuke 
Drove  back  the  messenger  that  well  nigh  brought 
Thy  feet  to  Jordan's  swellings. 


TO  THE  MISSIONARY  STUDENTS  AT  ANDOVER.    157 

Now,  again, 
We  meet  thee  at  the  altar,  where  we  bow, 
A  flock  assured,  and  comforted  and  glad. 
And  as  we  look  upon  thy  wasted  form, 
And  pallid  brow,  and  mark  of  that  stern  strife 
These  tokens, — thoughts  of  gratitude  to  heaven 
Are  blended  with  the  prayer,  that  needful  strength 
To  serve  thy  Master  longer,  may  be  thine  : 
And  long  thy  purity  of  heart  and  life, 
That  living  comment  on  thy  message — may 
Be  given  unto  our  gaze.     For  us,  that  we, 
Stricken,  yet  not  destroyed — may  rise  and  shine, 
A  living  church,  a  pillar  of  the  Truth. 


TO  THE   MISSIONARY  STUDENTS  AT 
ANDOVER; 

On  hearing  of  the  death  of  Messrs.  Munson  and 
Lyman ;  missionaries,  killed  by  the  natives  in 
Sumatra. 

There's  stillness  in  your  halls — 
There's  silence  in  your  rooms — 

Lightly,  the  hushed  step  falls, 
As  'twere  the  place  of  tombs. 


158    TO  THE  MISSIONARY  STUDENTS  AT  ANDOVER. 

Ye  scarcely  of  it  speak- 
So  mournful  is  the  tale, — 

It  clouds  the  brow ;  the  cheek 
Of  cheerfulness  is  pale. 

So  beautiful !  so  young- ! — 

These  blossoms  of  a  day, 
In  all  their  freshness  flung 

Relentlessly  away. 
Recall  the  word  ! — for  ever 

They,  by  a  kindly  One 
Transplanted  are,  where  never 

Is  hurtful  shade  or  sun. 

Why  lowers  the  manly  brow  1 

Why  pales  the  lip  of  youth  1 
Quail  high  resolvings  now  ] 

Fear  ye  the  brunt  for  truth  1 
Wills  not  each  noble  heart 

Rather,  to  venture  on  1 
With  things,  best  loved,  to  part, 

And  go,  as  these  have  gone  1 

Yes,  that  emotion  spake 

Of  holy  courage  given, 
When  called,  sweet  bands  to  break, 

And  yield  up  earth  for  heaven. 


TO  THE  MISSIONARY  STUDENTS  AT  ANDOVER.    159 

It  truly  tells  to  us — 

Renewal  of  the  tie 
To  Christ,  through  such,  or  worse 

Your  transit  to  the  sky. 

So  beautiful !  so  young  ! — 

And  yet  'twas  needful,  when 
We  fondly,  vainly  clung 

To  loved,  yet  fading  men. 
A  thunder  stroke  has  rent, 

Unwarned,  our  hopes  away ; 
Now  tearful  eyes  are  bent 

On  the  Unshaken  Stay. 

Go  then  ! — their  purple  tide 

Cries  out  "  Revenge  !" — for  what  1 
For  sin ! — though  deep  and  wide 

The  stain,  ye  may  it  blot. 
Yes,  in  a  Saviour's  blood, — 

And  free,  mysterious  grace, 
By  ye,  may  bring  to  God 

Sumatra's  ruined  race. 
1835. 


160       GOD  OF  JUDGMENT,  ROUND  THY  THRONE. 


VERILY  THOU  ART  A   GOD   THAT 
HIDEST  THYSELF. 

God  of  judgment !  round  thy  throne 

Tenors  rear  their  awful  seat; 
Darkness  is  thy  rest  alone, 

Thunders  dwell  beneath  thy  feet. 
Creatures  cannot  stay  thy  power, 

Nor  avert  thy  dreadful  rod; 
Creatures  of  a  feeble  hour, — 

Who  shall  dictate  to  a  God  1 

Blessings,  bounteous,  spring  from  thee, 

To  thee  sings  a  beauteous  land  ; 
Sorrows  thicken, — Lord,  we  see 

These,  commissioned  by  thy  hand. 
Secrets,  dreadful,  vast,  are  thine, 

To  a  mystery  we  bow  ; 
Angels,  worms,  attend  thy  shrine, 

Dread,  inscrutable,  art  Thou  ! 

Yet.  though  terrors,  night  and  gloom 

'Wait  obedient  on  thy  word, 
Though  no  cheering  smiles  illume, 

Still  we  trust  a  faithful  God, — 


THE  MEN  OF  PLYMOUTH.  161 


Still  we  rest  upon  the  Rock, — 
Jesus,  our  unshaken  Stay ; 

Even  the  weakest  of  his  flock 
He  will  never  cast  away. 


THE  MEN  OF  PLYMOUTH. 

ON  RECEIVING   FROM    MY  BROTHER   A    PIECE    0 
PLYMOUTH  ROCK. 

For  this,  from  granite  cliffs  that  hem 
The  Old  Bay  State,  my  brother !  thanks  ; — 

I  prize  it  more  than  curious  gem, 
Or  cluster  from  the  coral  banks  ; 

It  minds  me  of  the  love  I  knew 

In  boyish  days,  and  speaks  of  you. 

This  fragment,  from  New  England's  shore, 

Of  noble  spirits  telleth  me  ; 
I  see  them  now  ! — those  men  of  yore — 

The  elder  sons  of  Liberty  ! 
They  tread  this  soil  as  once  they  trod, — 
Exiles  for  chainless  Mind  and  God. 

These  are  the  iron  men  that  broke 

Ground,  where  the  Indian's  war  fire  curled ; 

L 


162  THE  MEN  OF  PLYMOUTH. 

These  spurned  the  princely,  priestly  yoke — 

These  are  the  fathers  of  a  world. 
0,  men  of  God's  own  image,  say ! 
Can  glorious  men  thus  pass  away ! 

No,  never  ! — Send  expansive  sight 

From  Labrador  to  Carib's  sea — 
That  vision,  so  sublime  and  bright, 

Of  regions,  teeming  with  the  free, 
Shows  but  the  influence  of  the  men 
Who  sought  the  sands  of  Plymouth  then. 

A  thousand  spires  that  look  above, 

A  thousand  towns  where  plenty  reigns, — 

A  people,  knit  by  virtuous  love, 

Who  course  those  streams  and  till  those  plains,— 

We  point  to  these,  and  proudly  cry 

Can  minds  that  wrought  such  doing,  die? 

No,  never! — Each  traditioned  spot 

Tells  where  they  wept,  or  sank  to  rest ; 

Yet  were  such  silent,  or  forgot 

The  place  their  pilgrim  footsteps  pressed — 

Their  names  should  live,  nor  Time  would  mock 

The  record  of  the  Plymouth  Rock. 


LAST  WORDS  OF  CHRIST.  163 


LAST  WORDS  OF  CHRIST. 

Last  words  of  Christ  ?  There  are  none  such  to  him, 

Who  has  accepted  Christ.  Whate'er  his  lot  may  be, 

Whate'er  his  trials,  toil,  and  sorrowing 

On  these  low  grounds  where  pilgrims  stay  awhile ; 

He  hears  in  all,  the  animating  voice 

Of  the  Redeemer,  and  it  whispers  him, 

Fear  not !  for  when  thou  passest  through  all  these, 

I,  even  I,  am  with  thee.     Yea,  in  death, 

Amid  the  tumult  of  the  body's  pain, 

That  voice  is  heard,  telling  the  sufferer 

Of  comfortings  and  of  supportings,  through 

Jordan's  cold  waters ;  and  its  mellow  tones 

Linger  until  the  last,  then  break  in  all 

The  ravishing,  exulting  airs  of  heaven. 

Yet  to  the  lost,  there  are  indeed  last  words 
Of  Christ.   The  lost  will  ever  think  on  these. 
And  in  the  ages  of  eternity 
Will  sharpened  recollection  call  them  up — 
Depart  ye  cursed !   What  last  words  are  these 
To  dwell  upon  for  ever  ! — ever  to  recall 
The  melting,  melancholy  tones  of  pity, 
Mixed  with  severity  of  God,  in  which 
The  Son  of  Man  pronounced  eternal  wo ! 


164  EXHIBITION  OF  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 


EXHIBITION  OF  THE  DEAF  AND  DUMB. 

The  Deaf  and  Dumb  ! — tell  me  what  heart 
Of  human  mould,  beats  not  with  some 

Kind  throb,  in  which  heaven  shares  a  part, 
Of  feeling  for  the  Deaf  and  Dumb  ! 

The  Deaf  and  Dumb  !  we  ask  no  voice 

Of  winning  Eloquence,  to  plead 
In  their  behalf,  to  bid  rejoice 

These  innocents  with  pity's  meed. 

The  Deaf  and  Dumb  alone  shall  speak ; 

In  language  that  prompt  nature  knows, 
Shall  bless  you ;  yea,  while  down  the  cheek 

Of  tenderness  the  warm  tear  flows. 

Theirs  is  a  voiceless  phrase,  unknown 

To  grosser  sense — the  glad  repeat 
Of  cherubs,  round  the  shining  throne, 

Hymning  their  love,  is  not  more  sweet. 

The  eye,  through  which  the  soul  is  seen, 

The  bosom  pulse  of  hope  and  fear, 
The  lamp  of  love,  whose  ray,  serene, 

Kindles  communion,  holy,  dear, 


j 


THE  FATHER  TO  HIS  GUILTY  SON.  165 

Are  theirs. — Sweet  ones  !  we  pity  not 

Your  fate ;  of  bliss  the  real  sum 
Is  given  to  consecrate  the  lot 

Of  Innocence, — the  Deaf  and  Dumb  ! 


THE  FATHER  TO  HIS  GUILTY  SON. 

A  young  man,  for  theft,  was  lately  adjudged  to 
the  penitentiary  for  one  year.  During  his  trial  he 
appeared  careless  and  indifferent  to  his  fate.  After 
sentence  was  pronounced,  his  mother  was  permit- 
ted to  speak  to  him.  "  My  boy,"  said  the  old 
lady,  "  go  to  the  penitentiary — serve  out  your  time 
there — and  when  you  return,  I  will  receive  you  as 
a  mother  still."  They  separated.  The  boy  was 
about  to  be  conducted  to  jail,  and  the  mother  was 
going  to  her  horse  for  the  purpose  of  returning 
home.  The  thought  of  being  thus  torn  from  her 
child  in  disgrace,  bore  too  hard  on  her  aged  breast, 
already  worn  with  grief  and  enfeebled  with  care. 
She  could  no  longer  support  the  heavy  load ;  she 
tottered  and  fell.  Her  situation  was  seen,  and 
many  ran  to  her  relief.  But  the  mother's  grief  and 
affliction  had  ceased, — she  had  expired.     The  un- 


166  THE  FATHER  TO  HIS  GUILTY  SON. 

happy  father  took  his  son  aside  and  thus  addressed 
him :  "  Behold,  my  son,  the  effects  of  guilt !  Your 
mother  is  no  more,  and  I  must  now  pursue  what 
little  remains  of  life's  journey,  stricken  and  alone." 
The  boy  was  subdued  ;  his  face,  which  before  had 
the  appearance  of  hardihood,  was  seen  bathed  in 
tears. 

Go  !  though  thou'st  pierced  the  bosom  now 

That  nourished  once  thy  frame, 
And  bade  with  grief  thy  father  bow, 

And  given  gray  hairs  to  shame ; 
Yea,  though  the  recompense  of  care 

Be  tears  and  bitter  ill, 
Yet  thou  art  he,  the  child  of  prayer, 

My  son — my  loved  one  still. 

Go  !  and  in  yonder  silent  cell 

Thy  early  lapse  atone  ; 
For  him,  the  penitent,  'tis  well, 

Who  thinks  and  weeps  alone. 
Thou  art  not,  though  a  wanderer,  far 

From  hope  of  pardon  free ; 
Even  now,  beams  out  salvation's  star 

For  thee,  my  son,  for  thee. 

Go  !  though  in  years,  and  desolate, 
Thy  sire  pursues  his  way, 


TWENTY-SECOND  OF  FEBRUARY.  167 

The  God  who  smote  me  knows  my  state, 

And  he  wTill  be  my  stay. 
For  thee — when  treading  yon  bright  plain, 

Thy  race,  too,  gladly  run — 
The  lost  shall  be  restored  again ; 

Woman !  behold  thy  son ! 


TWENTY-SECOND  OF  FEBRUARY. 

Rejoice  !  the  Spirits  of  the  mighty  Dead, 
Bending  from  bliss,  bid  you  rejoice  ! 

The  awful  shades  of  those  that  fought  and  bled, 
Require,  this  day,  the  heart  and  voice. 

Repeat  their  deeds,  and  bid  your  offspring  know, 
When  from  her  mountain  Freedom  calls, — 

The  warrior  deems  him  blest  who  meets  the  foe, 
And  more  than  recompensed,  who  falls. 

Go,  breathe  His  Name!  that  name,  beloved  so  well ; 

Go  tell  his  worth  to  Virtue  dear ; — 
Let  every  heart  with  generous  feeling  swell, 

Let  each,  in  silence,  give  the  tear. 


168  SONG  OF  THE  DRUNKARDS. 


SONG 

OF  THE  FIVE  HUNDRED  THOUSAND  DRUNKARDS  IN  THE 
UNITED  STATES. 

We  come  !  we  come !  with  sad  array, 

And  in  procession  long, 
To  join  the  army  of  the  lost, — 

Five  Hundred  Thousand  strong. 

Our  banners,  beckoning  on  to  death, 

Abroad,  we  have  unrolled  ; 
And  Famine,  Care  and  wan  Despair 

Are  seen  upon  their  fold. 

Ye  heard  what  music  cheers  us  on, — 

The  mother's  cry  that  rang 
So  wildly,  and  the  babe  that  wailed 

Above  the  trumpet's  clang. 

We've  taken  spoil ;   and  blighted  joys 

And  ruined  homes  are  here  : 
We've  trampled  on  the  throbbing  heart, 

And  flouted  sorrow's  tear. 


SONG  OF  THE  DRUNKARDS.  169 

We  come !  we  come ! — we've  searched  the  land, 

The  rich  and  poor  are  ours  ; 
Enlisted  from  the  shrines  of  God, 

From  hovels  and  from  towers. 

And  who,  or  what,  shall  balk  the  brave 

That  swear  to  drink  and  die ! 
What  boots  to  such,  man's  muttered  curse 

Or  His  that  spans  the  sky  ] 

Our  Leader  ! — who  of  all  the  chiefs, 

Warring-  for  Glory's  lust, — 
Can  boast,  like  him,  such  deeds,  such  griefs, 

Such  wounds,  such  trophies,  curst? 

We  come  !    Of  the  world's  scourges,  who 

Like  him  have  overthrown  ! 
What  wo  had  ever  earth,  like  wo 

To  his  stern  prowess  known  1 

Onward  !  though  ever  on  our  march 

Hang  Misery's  countless  train  ; 
Onward  for  hell — from  rank  to  rank 

Pass  we  the  cup  again ! 

We  come  !  we  come  !  to  fill  our  graves 

On  which  shall  shine  no  star ; 
To  glut  the  worm  that  never  dies, — 

Hurrah  !  Hurrah  !  Hurrah  ! 


170  NONE  SAVED  BY  MY  CARE. 


NONE  SAVED  BY  MY  CARE. 

The  judgment  day !  the  judgment  day ! 
When  flaming  worlds  will  haste  away, — 
If  mine  it  is  that  day  to  stand, 
A  ransomed  one,  at  thy  right  hand, — 

How  could  I  gaze  upon  the  throng, 
That  wake  on  golden  lyres  the  song, 
If  none,  that  day,  the  rapture  share, 
Led  by  my  love  and  labour  there  1 

While  spirits,  each  to  each,  would  tell 
Of  weal  and  wo  that  here  befell, 
Should  I  not,  from  the  frowning  throne, 
Wander  in  heaven,  unblest,  alone  ] 

While  life  is  lent,  before  that  day 
Draws  on,  when  toil  is  past  away, 
Let  me,  well  learned  the  heavenly  road, 
Lead  others  the  same  path  to  God. 


APOSTROPHE.  171 


APOSTROPHE. 


Take  wings,  take  wings,  and  seek  the  lost, 
The  lost,  guilt's  weary,  willing  slave ; 

Where  lies  he,  helpless,  hopeless,  tost, 
A  wreck  upon  the  sundering  wave ; 

And  seem  to  his  despair  the  dove, 

Whose  symbol  types  relief  and  love. 

Take  wings,  and  seek  the  dreaming  dead, 
The  dead,  o'er  whom  night  holds  misrule ; 

And,  dipt  in  heaven,  around  them  shed 
The  splendours  of  the  Sunday-school ; 

Whose  glories,  woven  on  the  throne, 

Have  burst,  and  streamed,  and  downward  shone. 

Take  wings,  and  fresh  memorials  bear 
Of  by-gone  men,  whose  feet  were  shod 

With  truth ;  whose  spear  and  shield  was  prayer, 
Who  fought  and  journeyed  up  to  God  ; 

And  shrine,  with  more  than  victor's  fame, 

The  martyr  missionary's  name. 

Yet  speedier,  loftier,  soar  again, 
And  fling  abroad  thy  living  light; 


172  APOSTROPHE. 

And  flood  the  flowering-  prairie's  plain, 

And  gild  the  wooded  mountain's  height ; 
Till  rich  redemption's  glory  shines 
On  western  wilds  and  eastern  pines. 

Till,  from  the  unforbidden  tree 

Of  knowledge,  drops  delicious  fruit ; 

Where'er  the  curse  hath  had  decree, 
Wherever  roams  the  destitute ; 

On  isles,  that  ocean's  bosom  gem, 

On  continents,  that  fringe  its  hem. 

Take  wings,  take  wings,  a  voice  !  it  comes 
From  wanderers  that  once  were  blest 

With  fair  New  England's  Sabbath  homes, 
A  voice  of  pleading  from  the  West ! 

Respond,  0  herald,  to  that  cry, 

With  tidings  of  deliverance  nigh. 

Tidings  ! — the  feet  of  steadfast  men, 
Are  standing,  in  their  beauty  now, 

On  field  and  plain  and  blossomed  glen, 
And  the  rejoicing  mountain's  brow. 

Already  have  savannas  rung 

With  music  of  the  lisper's  tongue. 

Already,  where  their  mossy  nests 

The  small  birds  build  on  branching  limb, 


APOSTROPHE.  173 

Unto  the  listening  solitudes, 

Flows  sweetly  forth  the  children's  hymn ; 
They  lift  to  God  the  accepted  strain, 
And  give  to  Christ  a  new  domain. 

The  forest  top's  deep  canopy, 

That  shadowed,  long",  the  wild  beast's  den ; 
And  gave  tall  eyry  to  the  fowl, 

Unknown  to  step  of  stranger  men, — 
Now  widely  flings  its  roof  of  green, 
"Where  prayer  and  anthem  rise  between. 

Tidings  !  Messiah  here  hath  spoil, — 

Yet  ampler,  richer,  shall  be  won  ; 
For  these  unfainting  sons  of  toil 

Have  but  one  watchword,  and  'tis  On ! 
Till  this  broad  land  shall  cultured  be, 
From  Alleghany  to  the  Sea. 

Valley  of  the  Mississippi,  1830. 


174       DESCENDANT  OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


TO  THE   DESCENDANT  OF  THE 
PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

Thou  boastest  of  a  glorious  stock, 

Of  high  ancestral  fame, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  Plymouth  Rock — 

Old  men  of  reverend  name  : 
Thou  boastest  of  the  proud  race,  sprung 

From  loins,  renowned  as  theirs, — 
That  benisons  are  sown  among 

These  heritors  of  prayers. 

'Tis  well — Yet  some  few  centuries  up, 

Trace  thou  thy  fathers,  nor 
Shrink,  though  they  offered  Woden's  cup, 

And  victims  slew  to  Thor ! 
The  mysteries  of  that  Druid  age, 

Stone  altar — grove — dost  learn  1 
What  read'st  thou  on  that  pagan  page 

That  makes  thy  flushed  cheek  burn  1 

Look  at  our  heathen — base  as  thou 

Dost  that  poor  outcast  hold, 
Heaven  sees  him  not  more  abject  now, 

Than  was  thy  sire  of  old  : 


FOR  MY  CHILD'S  TESTAMENT.  175 

And  He  who  quenched  those  fires  that  o'er 

The  Briton's  altar  curled, 
Can  gently  bow  the  myriad  hearts 

Of  the  dark  idol  world. 

Methinks  that  tears  for  his  lorn  lot, 

Relievings  for  his  plea, 
Thou'lt  give,  when  thou  rememberest  what 

Religion's  wrought  for  thee  : 
The  noble  plan  to  send  its  light 

To  him,  thou'lt  not  reject, 
Lest  e'en  the  Anglo-Saxon's  night 

Reprove  thy  deep  neglect. 


FOR  MY  CHILD'S  TESTAMENT. 

Every  hour 
I  read  you,  kills  a  sin, 
Or  lets  a  virtue  in 
To  fight  against  it. 

Izaac  Walton. 

Thou  hast  no  treasure  like  to  this, 

A  staff  below,  a  guide  to  bliss, 

A  way  so  plain  that  none  need  miss. 

Without  whose  aid  thou  canst  not  die ; 

With  which,  thou'lt  tread  the  upper  sky. 


176  A  RECENT  LOSS. 

I  counsel  thee  to  dig  this  field, 
Which  fruit,  a  thousand  fold,  will  yield : 
To  toil  in  this  unfailing  mine, 
Where  chrysolites  and  jewels  shine  : 
To  draw  from  this  fresh  springing  well, 
Whose  living  waters  rise,  and  swell 
In  streams,  refreshing  in  the  wild. 
Oh,  love  this  Book  of  books,  my  Child ! 


A  RECENT  LOSS. 

Death  sought  a  noble  victim.     Many  he 
Had  mowed  before  him  in  their  manliness ; 
And  many,  who  were  loving  and  were  loved, 
Bowed  in  their  beauty  to  his  tyranny. 
But  now  must  fall  unwonted  comeliness ; 
And  worth  must  pass  away  that  well  had  proved 
It  lived  not  to  itself.     To  mourn  the  dead, 
Must  Genius  come,  and  Friendship  must  be  grieved. 
The  fatal  arrow  must  God's  house  invade, 
And  smite  the  Shepherd  :   yea,  the  flock,  long  led 
By  the  still  waters,  must  be  now  bereaved. 
Society,  a  pillar  must  see  laid 
In  dust.     Affection's  truest  tears  must  swell 
The  victor's  triumph — and  he  took  Bedell. 
1834. 


THE  MINSTRELS  OF  JUDAH.  177 


THE  MINSTRELS  OF  JUDAH  HAVE 
GONE  TO  THEIR  REST. 

The  minstrels  of  Judah  have  gone  to  their  rest ; 

The  song  and  the  tabret  no  longer  are  heard ; 
The  watchmen  of  Zion,  with  slumber  opprest, 

Repose  on  the  walls  where  the  Syrian  appeared. 

And  the  beauty  of  Israel,  forgotten,  has  fled, 
And  darkness  envelops  Jerusalem  now,— 

No  night  lamp  illumines  the  place  of  the  dead, 
Save  the  star  that  beams  lonely  on  Olivet's  brow. 

'Tis  the  Star  of  the  Shepherd !  and  long  has  it 
shone, 

With  the  gems  of  the  morning,  on  Galilee's  plain; 
'Tis  the  herald  of  Bethlehem  !  but  pale  and  alone 

Is  the  purest  and  loveliest  of  night's  silent  train. 

Shall  the  herald  of  Bethlehem  in  sadness  appear? 

The  symbol  no  longer  on  Solyma  shine  1 
Shall  the  Star  of  the  Shepherd,  once  lovely  and 
clear, 
Die  away  o'er  the  mountains  of  fair  Palestine  ] 
M 


178  VERSES. 

Rejoice  ! — for  the  Daughter  of  Judah,  no  more, 
Shall  array  in  the  sackcloth,  0  Zion,  for  thee; 

Thy  light  has  arisen  !  from  Egypt's  dark  shore, 
It  shines  in  its  strength  to  Gennesaret's  Sea. 


VERSES, 

On  hearing  that  the  beautiful  Mrs. had  given 

her  ornaments  to  the  promotion  of  the  Temper- 
ance cause. 

Chains  for  the  neck  of  Beauty, 

Gems,  richly  wrought  and  rare, 
Rings,  of  the  costly  chased  work, 

Which  'twas  thy  pride  to  wear — 
Thou  pluckest  from  thy  ringer, 

Thou  pluckest  from  thy  brow ; 
To  do  it,  thou'lt  not  linger, — 

The  ruin  rages  now. 

Thou'st  seen  Destruction  wasting 
The  home  where  peace  had  dwelt, — 

Thou'st  seen  the  unwritten  sorrows, 
The  broken  heart  has  felt : 


1T9 


That  gTief  needs  not  the  telling; 

The  poet  need  not  deck 
Woes  of  the  drunkard's  dwelling, — 

His  fireside's  hopeless  wreck. 

A  pencil  dipt  in  hell, 

With  characters  of  flame, 
Alone,  may  truly  tell 

His  present — future  shame. 
Loss  of  this  life's  best  pleasures — 

Bliss  bartered  for  the  bowl — 
Loss  of  the  next  life's  treasures — 

Loss  of  the  cheated  soul. 

Gold  to  the  crucible  ! 

Rich  gems  for  other's  wrear ! 
Thine  are  the  ornaments 

Compassion  deems  so  fair. 
With  these,  let  wings  be  given 

To  Truth's  unerring  light ; 
'Mid  arabesques  of  heaven, 

What  jewel  is  so  bright ! 


180  THE  BIBLE  SOCIETY. 


THE  BIBLE  SOCIETY. 

Christian  brethren !  thus  united, 

Banded  by  Religion's  tie — 
Who  to  climes  in  sin  benighted, 

Send  the  light  that  beams  from  high  ; 
Ye  have  on  the  waters  spread 

Seed  unto  Jehovah's  praise, — 
Courage  ! — ye  shall  find  that  bread, 

Gladly,  after  many  days. 

Party,  here,  and  faction's  dream — 

Blights  of  concord — are  not  found  ; 
Where  the  Bible  is  the  theme, 

All  is  holy,  equal  ground. 
Charity  each  soul  entwining, 

Kindred  feeling  walks  abroad ; 
False  distinction  sacrificing 

At  the  altar  of  our  God. 

Hear  ye  not  the  choir  of  voices  1 

Deeds  of  love  in  Heaven  are  known ; 

And  the  cherub,  there,  rejoices, 
Brighter  burns  the  glorious  throne. 


SONG  FOR  PAINE's  BIRTHDAY.  181 

God  of  Bibles  ! — Him  we  bless 

For  this  pillar  on  our  way ; 
Cheerer  through  the  wilderness, 

Symbol  of  the  latter  day, 

When  the  isles  His  law  shall  know, 

Mercy  gild  the  pagan  shore, — 
Blessings  to  the  nations  flow, 

Sin's  dark  billows  rage  no  more. 
Onward,  brethren !  thus  united, 

Faith  your  patron,  Christ  your  aim ; 
Onward  !  and  to  climes  benighted 

Spread  the  lustre  of  his  Name. 


SONG, 

WRITTEN    FOR   THE    CELEBRATION  OF  THE  BIRTHDAY 
OF  THOMAS  PAINE. 

We  laud  him,  yet  'tis  not  that  such 

Burning  lightnings  were  launched  from  his  pen, 
To  scorch  old  Britannia  ;  as  much 

Has  been  done  by  as  powerful  men. 
We  care  not  how  wisely,  or  well, 

He  wrote — whether  foemen  looked  glum 


182  SONG  FOR  PAINE's  BIRTHDAY. 

At  his  satire,  or  reckoned  their  knell 
Of  defeat,  in  the  roll  of  the  drum. 

'Tis  the  same,  if,  securely,  we  boast 

Of  immunity,  purchased  by  blood, 
To  laugh  at  Christianity's  host, 

Or  the  phantom  of  devotees — God  ! 
'Tis  the  same,  if  we've  liberty,  here, 

To  scoff  at  eternity's  thought ; 
At  the  notion  of  spirits  to  jeer, 

Save  those  which  our  landlord  has  brought. 

Him  we  laud,  whose  philosophy  gave, 

Though  religionists  hate  it  like  treason — 
The  triumph  o'er  Bigotry's  grave, 

The  Age  of  Inquiry  and  Reason. 
Which  teacheth,  the  end  of  our  race, 

Oblivion — waiteth  on  all ; 
The  noble,  the  good  and  the  base ; 

The  lofty,  as  well  as  the  small. 

Had  he  only,  in  Politics'  train, 

Daily  laboured,  our  cause  had  been  worse ; 
Ovation  he  ne'er  should  obtain, 

His  name  might  have  rotted,  for  us ! 
No  song  should  this  night  tell  his  story ; 

No  supper  his  memory  should  dub 
With  honour ;  no  pledge  to  his  glory 

Should  be  drunk  by  the  Infidel  Club. 


SONG  FOR  PAINE'S  BIRTHDAY.  183 

That  our  Chief  was  intemperate,  let  those 

Strong  impulses  answer,  that  hold  us ; 
Base,  sordid,  and  sensual — his  foes, 

And  Cheetham,  confound  him  !  have  told  us. 
That  his  heart  was  insensible  to 

True  friendship  and  love,  they  proclaim ; 
To  deny  it,  were  folly, — 'tis  true ; 

Yet  who  may  the  patriot  blame  ! 

A  drunkard  he  might  be — he  was ; 

We  confess  it — a  low  debauchee ; 
Yet  we  may  not  scout  him,  because 

Some  of  us  of  like  kidney  may  be. 
A  toast,  then,  for  him  who  could  hush 

The  thunders  of  Britain,  afar ; 
Who  strove,  alas,  vainly,  to  crush 

The  shine  of  the  Nazarene's  Star ! 

They  tell  us,  his  sun  set  in  night ; 

It  faltered,  as  faltered  his  breath ; 
He  shrieked  in  his  fearful  affright, 

When  he  felt  the  cold  welcome  of  death, — 
And  those  who  deem  not,  for  the  few, 

A  world  is  created  of  bliss, 
As  they  gazed  on  the  wretch,  thought  'twas  true, 

A  hell  might  be  kindled  in  this. 

We  care  not, — it  cannot  refute, 

Even  though  at  the  last  he  had  shame — 


184  SONG  FOR  PAINE's  BIRTHDAY. 

That  unto  proud  man  and  the  brute, 
The  finale  is  one  and  the  same. 

He  might  have  been  out  of  his  head, — 
His  biographer,  sure,  might  deceive  us,- 

How  he  ought  to  have  gone  to  the  dead, 
We  tell,  and  the  many  believe  us. 

His  bones,  to  the  fast  anchored  isle, 

Were  sent  by  disciples,  we  know ; 
Had  they  left  us  a  relic,  we'd  smile, 

Were  it  but  from  the  thorax,  or  toe  : 
Such  gleaning  of  genius,  divine, 

His  skeleton  never  had  missed ; 
At  supper,  when  passes  the  wine, 

What  a  gem  to  be  toasted  and  kissed ! 

Yet  if  here,  we've  no  relic  to  show 

Of  him,  whom  we  honour  as  First, 
At  least,  we'll  have  jollity's  flow, — 

'Twere  a  monument  worthy  his  dust. 
Then  here's  to  the  patriot  and  sage  ; — 

Boon  friends  !  fill  the  glasses  again, 
To  him,  that  created  the  Age 

Of  Reason  and  Liberty,  Paine  ! 


THE  TENDER  SHEPHERD.  185 


THE  TENDER  SHEPHERD. 

There  was  a  Shepherd,  once,  whose  tender  care 
Was  ever  o'er  his  flock.     By  night  and  day- 
He  watched  and  guarded  them.     In  pleasant  pas- 
tures 
He  led  them  carefully,  and  when  they  thirsted, 
He  brought  them  to  clear  waters.  Him,  they  loved 
To  follow,  and  would  fondly  lick  his  hand, 
In  sign  of  strong  attachment. 

All,  but  one, — 
A  sheep,  that  ever,  frowardly,  did  rove, 
And  heeded  not  the  Shepherd.     Kind  allurements 
Were  urged  in  vain,  for  she  would  have  her  will, 
And  neither  heard  his  voice  nor  followed  him. 
Her  master,  seeing  all  endeavour  vain, 
To  win  her  from  her  wanderings,  took  her  lamb, 
But,  gently — in  his  arms,  and  went  his  way. 
Immediately,  the  sheep,  submissive,  followed. 

Mother !  that  weepest  for  thy  little  babe, 
Taken,  to  win  thy  wayward  step  to  Heaven — 
Say,  Was  the  Shepherd  cruel  ? 


186  THE  YOUNG  CONVERT. 


THE   YOUNG  CONVERT. 

A  couple  once, — the  followers,  in  name, 
Of  Him,  who  meekly  bore  our  sin  and  shame, — 
Lived  in  our  county.     Decent,  thrifty,  they 
Were  wedded  to  the  world.     No  one  could  say 
They  were  not  sober ;  did  not  pay  their  dues ; 
Or  alms  to  worthy  Want  would  e'er  refuse. 
At  church,  they  always  filled  accustomed  place, 
Hoping"  to  gain  some  influence,  if  not  grace. 
And  thus  they  lived,  as  thousands  live,  whose  care 
Is  bent  on  earth,  nor  seeks  to  heaven  in  prayer. 
Content,  if  for  this  world  'twas  theirs  to  thrive, 
Dead,  thus  to  be, — in  name,  alone,  alive. 
One  son  was  theirs — a  boy,  that  had  fourteen 
Joyous,  and  bright,  and  thoughtless  summers  seen. 
Of  generous  impulse,  open  as  the  day, — 
The  father's  pride,  the  mother's  future  stay, 
Yet  found  not  in  the  safe  and  narrow  way. 
Till  grace  came  down,  in  unexpected  hour, 
And  touched  his  bosom  with  resistless  power ; 
And  bade  him  look  upon  his  misspent  time, 
Taken  from  Him,  who  asks  the  morning's  prime  ; 
And  bade  him  see  his  young  affections  given 
To  childish  folly, — yea,  to  all,  but  Heaven. 


THE  YOUNG  CONVERT.  187 

Thought  awoke. — A  dreadful  sound  was  in  his  ears; 
It  told  of  stain,  not  to  be  washed  by  tears  ; — 
Of  debt,  heaven's  pitying  angels  could  not  pay, — 
Of  guilt,  hell's  fires  could  never  purge  away. 
Looked  he  without  1 — without,  was  blank  despair ; 
Within  1 — the  Spirit's  arrow  quivered  there. 
Alarmed,  convicted,  whither  should  he  fly  I — 
'Twas  midnight — yet  he  felt  the  Omniscient  eye 
Rest  on  his  follies.     On  his  sins  now  shone 
The  searching  beams  of  the  discerning  throne. 
He  trembled — wept — and  rose,  and  sought  the  room 
Where  slept  his  parents.     Troubled  for  his  doom, 
He  stood.     His  earnest  knock  roused  them  from 

sleep ; 
They  heard  him  softly  sigh,  they  heard  him  weep  ; 
And,  Father !  Mother !  rise — they  heard  him  say, 
For  my  poor  wretched  soul,  O  rise  and  pray! 
It  took  them  by  surprise.     How  could  they  ask 
Mercy,  in  prayer,  to  whom  prayer  was  a  task  ] 
What  knew  they  of  the  sickness  of  the  soul, 
Who  felt  no  need — who  deemed  that  they  were 

whole  1 
They  waived  his  plea,  and  soothed  the  anxious  boy, 
And  urged  to  sleep,  which  should  such  thoughts 
Reluctant,  yet  obedient,  back  to  bed         [destroy. 
He  went,  yet  not  to  rest,  for  rest  had  fled. 
Morn  came — the  day  past  on — no  kindly  word, 
Or  how  he  fared,  the  youth,  awakened,  heard. 


188  the  duellist's  honour. 

No  father  asked  what  sorrow  moved  his  heart, 
No  mother,  had  he  sought  the  better  part  ? 
Unwatched,  uncounselled,  silently,  he  trod 
The  house,  that  day, — left  to  himself  and  God. 
Buried  in  sleep,  at  night's  hushed  hour,  once  more, 
His  parents  lay. — A  knock  is  at  the  door ! 
A  voice  ! — it  is  their  child  ! — but  changed  in  tone, 
From  sorrow's  note,  it  seemed  like  pleasure's  own. 
Once  more  they  roused  to  hear  their  little  son 
Weep  at  the  door ;  yet  not,  as  late,  undone. 
No  tears  of  anguish,  now  !     With  joy  he  cries, 
Rise,  my  dear  father  ! — rise,  dear  mother !  rise, 
And  help  me  praise  !  and  higher  praises  sound — 
For  J,  this  night,  have  a  sweet  Saviour  found ! 


THE  DUELLIST'S  HONOUR. 

And  what's  that  Honour,  but  a  fiend, 
That  lures  with  hateful  guile ; 

Yea,  by  infernal  custom  screened, 
That  murders  with  a  smile  ] 


A  devil,  that  can  laugh  at  ties 
Which  kindred  souls  entwine ; 

By  whose  deceit,  the  victim  dies, 
An  offering  at  its  shrine  ! 


WINTER  WOES.  189 

The  gTiefs  that  rend  the  widow's  breast, 

The  tears  of  her  despair, — 
The  sigh  that  speaks  the  heart  oppressed, 

The  orphan's  look  of  care — 

These  are  false  Honour's  triumphs !  these 

The  trophies  of  its  fame ; 
And  such  the  envied  laurel  wreaths, 

That  cluster  round  its  name. 


WINTER  WOES. 

The  snow  lies  drearily  upon  the  ground, 
The  stream  is  frozen  and  the  forest  bare ; 

Long  nights  and  short  days  tell 

That  monarch  Winter's  come. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  plaining.     There  are  wo 
And  want  in  yonder  dwellings.     Can  I  see 

Such  misery  and  tears, 

Nor  hasten  to  relieve ! 

Perhaps  on  yonder  wretched  bed,  lies  one, 
That  once  saw  better  days.     He  sat  with  men 
Of  wealth,  and  drank  their  cup, 
And  lived  in  Splendour's  hall. 


190  WINTER  WOES. 

The  contrast  that  he  makes,  between  his  cot, 
And  the  proud  dome  that  sheltered,  once,  his  head- 

His  luxuries  and  joys, 

And  present  poverty, 

Adds  to  his  pangs.     0,  better  can  he  bear 
The  ills  of  want,  who  never  other  knew — 
Than  can  the  fallen  wretch, 
That  once  was  Grandeur's  child. 

Perhaps,  in  yon  low  rooms,  abideth  one, 
Who  is  a  widow,  desolate  and  poor. 

Her  orphaned  babes  !    I  seem 

To  hear  them  cry  for  bread. 

The  cold  wind  enters  every  crevice.     She 
Sits  lonely,  weeping  by  her  scanty  fire. 

She  shivers  at  the  blast — 

Her  heart  is  well  nigh  broke  ! 

The  snow  lies  drearily  upon  the  ground, — 
I'll  hasten  to  the  man,  reduced  by  want, — 

I'll  seek  the  widow's  door, 

And  cause  her  to  rejoice. 


THE  EAGLE  ON  HIS  MOUNTAIN  HEIGHT.         191 


THE  EAGLE  OX  HIS  MOUNTAIN 
HEIGHT. 

The  eagle  on  his  mountain  height, 

Beneath  the  eastern  sky, — 
Securely  views  the  source  of  light 

With  bold  and  fearless  eye. 

If,  while  thus  lost  in  glory's  blaze, 

He  bends  a  downward  view, 
Earth  seems  unto  his  distant  gaze, 

Minute,  and  cheerless  too. 

Thus,  on  the  mount  of  faith  and  prayer, 

Jehovah's  love  is  seen ; 
Sure  vision,  strengthened,  gazes  there, 

Without  a  veil  between. 

Then  dim  is  every  joy,  compared 

With  bliss  that  never  cloys ; 
And  light  the  sorrows  each  has  shared, 

Compared  with  heavenly  joys. 


192  A  MOTHER. 


A  MOTHER. 

To  be  a  Mother,  is,  for  her, 

To  taste  of  more  delight, 
Than  when  the  little  traveller, 

Her  babe — first  met  her  sight. 
It  is  to  welcome  one  to  earth, 

That  may  hereafter  shine 
With  children  of  the  second  birth, 

In  blessedness,  divine. 

To  be  a  Mother,  is  to  know 

Much  of  enduring  pain, 
Lest  that  sweet  blossom,  cherished  so, 

May  ne'er  true  life  obtain. 
It  is  to  bow  in  agony, 

And  wet  her  couch  with  tears  ; 
And  send  up  broken  sighs,  and  be 

Distressed  with  many  fears. 

To  be  a  Mother,  is  to  trace, 

As  Childhood's  years  revolve, — 

His  path ;  and  still,  when  on  his  face, 
Sits  Manhood's  high  resolve — 


A  MOTHER.  193 

Still  painfully,  yet  pleasingly, 

As  fair  he  seems  to  sight — 
To  guard  and  guide,  unceasingly, 

His  faltering  steps  aright. 

To  be  a  Mother,  for  his  ease, 

Is  not  now  care  to  take ; — 
Yea,  thou  must  bid  him  cross  the  seas, 

And  toil  for  Jesus'  sake ; — 
And  bid  him  lay  his  strength  and  youth, 

And  all  that's  pride  of  thine, 
Upon  the  altar  of  the  truth, — 

The  Missionary's  shrine. 

To  be  a  Mother,  in  this  day 

Of  Satan's  constant  loss, 
Is  to  send  forth  to  glorious  fray, 

A  warrior  of  the  Cross. 
It  is,  to  be  forgotten  here ; 

Yet  gaining  honour,  true, 
Such  as  the  Roman  matron,  ne'er, 

Who  bore  the  Gracchi — knew. 

To  be  a  Christian  mother,  now, 

Is  to  prepare  a  gem 
To  sparkle  on  the  Saviour's  brow, — 

First,  in  His  diadem. 
N 


194  HOLINESS  TO  THE  LORD. 

A  soul,  that's  in  His  blood  made  white, 
Transformed  by  sovereign  grace, — 

And  set,  at  last,  with  sons  of  light, 
Where  God  appoints  a  place. 

Oh  blest ! — in  holy  hope,  to  rear 

A  spirit  for  the  skies, — 
Which,  when  the  planets  disappear, 

In  excellence,  shall  rise. 
Oh  blest ! — to  see  His  face,  that  day, 

Which  flesh  can't  see,  and  live, — 
And,  Here  am  J,  with  gladness,  say, 

And  children,  Thou  didst  give. 


HOLINESS  TO  THE  LORD. 


In  that  day  shall  there  be  upon  the  bells  of  the  horses,  Holiness 
unto  the  Lord. 

Zech.  xiv.  20. 


Write  on  your  garnered  treasures, 
Write  on  your  choicest  pleasures, 
Upon  things  new  and  old, 
The  precious  stone  and  gold ; — 
On  outward  riches,  write, — 
On  bosomed  riches,  write, — 


HOLINESS  TO  THE  LORD.  195 

Wife,  husband,  children,  friends, 
On  all  that  Goodness  lends ; 
On  altars  where  you  kneel, 
Where  Mercy  doth  reveal 
Herself: — On  your  good  name, 
Upon  your  cherished  fame  : 
On  every  pleasant  thing- ; 
On  stores  that  Heaven  doth  fling 
Into  your  basket — write  ! 
Upon  the  smiles  of  God, 
Upon  his  scourging-  rod  ; — 
Write  on  your  inmost  heart ; 
Write  upon  every  part 
Of  your  mysterious  frame, — 
To  Him  from  whom  it  came, — 
To  Him  who  claims  the  whole, 
Time,  talent,  body,  soul ; — 
To  whom  small  birds  belong, 
And  worlds  that  wheel  in  song, — 
Ocean  and  little  rills, 
The  everlasting  hills  ; — 
Whose  shadowing  wings,  as  well 
Fold  heaven,  as  the  broad  hell : 
Who  moves  the  planets'  dance, 
Who  marks  the  blade's  advance; 
Whose  coming  stirs  the  dead ; — 
Write  !  for  it  shall  be  read 


196  TO  THE  COMET. 

When  finally  expire 
Suns  on  their  funeral  pyre ; 
Write  ! — In  eternity 
The  syllables  shall  be ; — 
Upon  His  footstool  write ! 
Upon  his  throne,  go,  write 
Holiness  to  the  Lord  ! 


TO  THE  COMET. 

Curious  stranger!  blaze  of  light! 

Messenger  of  good  or  ill — 
Portent  to  the  wondering  sight, 

What  behest  dost  thou  fulfil  1 

Art  thou  Famine's  fearful  star  1 

Or  shall  Health's  kind  blessing  cease  1 

Dost  thou  omen  direful  War  ? 
Or  confirm  the  notes  of  Peace  ! 

Art  thou  missioned  from  above  1 

Oh,  celestial  herald,  say, — 
Dost  thou  bring  the  Morn  of  Love — 

Dost  thou  wake  Millennial  Day  ! 


TO  THE  COMET.  197 

Could  we  thus,  with  rapture  meet  thee, 

Mystic  traveller  of  the  skies — 
How  the  world's  full  song  would  greet  thee, 

How  would  stirring  anthems  rise  ! 

Yet,  though  Wisdom  has  denied 

Us,  thy  errand  here  to  tell, — 
Though  thou  mockest  human  pride, 

Yet  we  know  that  all  is  well. 

He  that  speaks  in  dreadful  thunder, 
Throned  in  power  above  the  sky — 

He,  before  whose  viewless  splendour, 
Blazing  suns  and  comets  die — 

He  that  bowls  the  orbs  along, 
Guides  the  systems  at  his  will, — 

Gives  the  morning  stars  their  song, 
God — will  guard  his  children  still. 

Curious  stranger  !  urge  thy  flight; 

Soon  thy  meteor  reign  is  o'er, — 
While  thou  scarest  ebon  Night, 

We,  admiring,  God  adore. 


198     WINTER  RULES  THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 


WINTER  RULES  THE  CLOSING  YEAR. 

Winter  rules  the  closing  year, 
See  the  grisly  king  appear  ! 
Terrors  thickening  in  his  train, 
Snow,  that  mantles  hill  and  plain ; 
Hoary  frost  with  silver  beam, 
Ice,  congealing  every  stream. 
On  the  whirlwind  of  the  sky, 
Fiercely,  angry  tempests  fly ; 
Sleet,  that  gems  the  frozen  ground, 
Stormy  hail,  that  rattles  round. 

Night  has  curtained  o'er  the  skies, 
Home  the  lated  traveller  hies ; 
O'er  the  dreary  landscape  now, 
Horror  broods  with  scowling  brow. 
Now,  within,  securely  warm, 
Man  defies  the  pelting  storm ; 
Heeds  not  blustering  Winter's  ^wrath, 
Safe  around  the  social  hearth ; 
Laughs,  when  sullen  tempests  roar, 
Rich  in  Autumn's  gathered  store. 
Blithe,  the  merry  tale  goes  round, 
Dance,  with  music's  jocund  sound, 


SOUTH  AMERICAN  HYMN.  199 

Pleasure  beams  in  every  smile — 
Innocence,  unknown  to  guile. 

Mortals  !  thus  supremely  blessed, 
Let  Compassion  warm  each  breast. 
Pity,  earliest  child  of  Heaven, 
Pity,  is  to  mortals  given. 
Let  her  plead,  nor  plead  in  vain, 
For  the  heir  of  want  and  pain. 
From  abundance,  O  restore 
To  the  Being,  who  will  pour 
Richest  treasures  on  the  kind — 
Blessings  on  the  liberal  mind. 


SOUTH  AMERICAN  HYMN. 

Land  of  the  Patriot !  thy  symbol  adorns, 
With  lustre  serene,  the  horizon  afar ; 

On  the  mantle  of  night,  undiminished,  it  burns, 
And  the  dawning  appears,  long  foretold  by  the 
star. 

Gem  of  the  south !  thy  pure  glories  display 
New  charms   to   the   nations  that  slumber  in 
gloom ; 


200  SOUTH  AMERICAN  HYMN. 

As  cheered  with  thy  influence,  and  wanned  by  thy 
ray, 
They  see  thee  shine  out  upon  tyranny's  tomb. 

When  despoiled  of  her  altar,  fair  Liberty  left 
The  land,  whose  dark  rites  did  its  lustre  impair, 

On  the  pinions  of  hope,  to  thy  free  mountain  cleft, 
She  flew  in  her  need,  and  discovered  it  there. 

Though  wild  was  the  havoc  that  crimsoned  thy 
plain, 
And  dimmed  is  the  sceptre  thy  Genius  had  won, 
The  Inca,  descended,  will  sway  it  again, 

And  Freedom  shall  shield  thee,  the  child  of  the 
Sun! 

Land  of  the  Patriot !  the  halo  revealed 

On  the  deeds  of  thy  chiefs,  shall  with  ages 

increase ; 
The  temple  of  glory  shall  rise  unconcealed, 

And  hecatombs  bleed  on  the  altar  of  Peace. 


THE  FOUNDERING  BARQUE.         201 


THE   FOUNDERING  BARQUE    BY  TEM- 
PESTS TOST. 

The  foundering  barque  by  tempests  tost, 

Engulphed  in  ocean's  foaming  wave, — 
While  clinging  to  the  splintered  mast, 

The  sea-boy  marks  the  billowy  grave — 
O  say,  why  beams  that  glance  of  wo  ] 

While  steals  adown  the  stranger  tear  1 
Is  it  for  self,  he  sorrows  ] — No  ! 

'Tis  one  afar,  to  memory  dear ! 

While  climbing  o'er  the  shattered  lee, 

The  panting  seamen,  'nighted,  reel ; 
As  rudely  lashed  by  every  sea, 

Each  timber  shivers  to  the  keel, — 
Why  falters,  now,  the  accent  low, 

That  once  each  shipmate's  heart  could  cheer? 
Does  danger  stir  his  bosom? — No  ! 

'Tis  one  afar,  to  memory  dear ! 

When  pitying  Mercy  calms  the  gale, 
And  gently  lulls  the  dreadful  storm — 

While  breezes  press  the  stiffened  sail, 
And  hope  revives,  with  fancy,  warm — 


202  THE  VISION, 

O  say,  why  smiles  the  sea-boy  so, 

As  boatswain  halloes — "  port  is  near  !" 

Is  it  for  self  he  joys  ] — Oh  no, — 
'Tis  one,  in  port,  to  memory  dear! 


THE  VISION. 

I  saw  the  scroll — 
Its  fearful  length  unfolding-  far  beyond 
The  ken  of  Angel.     Eternity  was  there. 

The  trumpets  sounded, 
The  golden  harps  attuned  triumphant  lays 
To  Him  who  Was,  who  Is,  and  is  To  Come, 
Creation's  King.     When  lo,  the  Seraph 
WThom  first  I  saw — advancing,  gave  the  sign, 
And  Heaven's  vast  courts  were  still.    With  rapid 

strides 
Approached  the  monarch,  hoar,  unwearied  Time ; 
To  him,  the  chief,  he  trembling,  yielded  up 
His  dread  account :  The  Seraph  raised  the  signet, 
Jehovah's   Manual,   and   on  the  parchment  was 

imprest 
Another  Year ! — Again  the  trumpets  sounded; 
The  tuneful  harps,  again,  lent  melody, 
And  swelled  on  high  the  blessed,  the  sacred  song. 


MISS  AFONG  MOY.  203 


TO  THE  CHINESE  LADY, 

MISS  AFONG  MOY. 

I  marvel  at  thy  curious  mien, 
Thy  strange,  fantastic  air ; 

And  yet  with  us  there  may  be  seen 
Some  Belles,  as  proudly  fair ! 

I  marvel  at  thy  accent,  too, 

That  tells  a  far-off  land  ; 
And  ponder,  as  I  scan  thy  shoe, 

How  thou  canst  walk,  or  stand. 

Thine  oriental  boudoir,  is 
To  wondering-  eyes,  a  feast ; 

Though  not  a  real  pagoda,  'tis 
A  Chinese  hall,  at  least. 

Descendant  of  an  ancient  line 
That  higher  looks  than  Eve, — 

Sprung  from  a  root  almost  divine, 
Or  quite,  as  some  believe ! — 

I  think  with  interest  on  thee, 
Thy  foreign  speech  and  birth, 


204  MISS  AFONG  MOY. 

Remembering  God  of  one  blood  made 
The  kindreds  of  the  earth. 

Yet  more — I  think  how  lately  we, 
With  prejudice,  had  hemmed 

Thy  nation,  and  how  easily 
Its  millions  had  condemned 

To  ignorance,  and  utter  gloom, 

And  superstition's  thrall ; 
And  deemed  thy  empire  but  a  tomb, 

As  soulless  as  its  wall. 

'Till  we  were  better  taught ;  and  since 

A  Morrison  has  toiled, 
And  he,  of  mission-men,  the  prince — 

GutzlafF,  the  error  foiled — 

And  we  have  seen  that  on  its  night, 
So  hopeless  and  so  long, — 

Have  fallen  sparkles  of  the  light, 
That  to  the  skies  belong; 

We  cherish  the  exalted  faith, 
Life  bursting  from  the  dead — 

That  China  quickly  shall  be  one 
In  Christ,  the  living  Head. 


TO  A  HALF  BLOWN  LILY.  205 


TO  A  HALF  BLOWN  LILY. 

Lovely  blossom !  welcome  here, 
Floweret,  that  I  love  so  well ; 

Fairest  of  the  gay  parterre, 
Lily  of  the  silver  bell ! 

In  the  low  sequestered  dale, 

Sheltered  from  the  mountain  storm, 

Sweetest  of  the  sylvan  vale, 
Spring  unfolds  thy  slender  form. 

Lovelier,  thou,  of  spotless  hue, 
Shrinking  from  the  gaze  of  light, 

Than  the  rose  which  loves  to  shew 
Conscious  beauty  to  the  sight. 

In  retirement  still  concealed, 

Type  of  modesty  art  thou ; 
To  the  graces,  half  revealed, 

We,  delighted,  willing  bow. 

Bloom,  O  bloom,  thou  lovely  flower ! 

Fairest  of  the  laughing  dell ; 
Queen  of  Flora's  native  bower, 

Lily  of  the  silver  bell ! 


206  GAZE  THOU  UPON  A  FALLEN  WORLD. 


BOOKS  FOR  CHINA. 

I  lately  saw,  cased  up,  of  those  same  books, 

A  library ; — valued  are  they,  and  sought 
Of  all  our  Sabbath-schools.     I  love  their  looks ; 

So  queried  for  what  children  they  were  bought, 
Or  whither  they  would  go  !     The  lad  replied 

"  To  China."    At  his  words  I  wondered  then : 
To  China ! — 'tis  but  lately  we  should  chide 

The  fancy  that  durst  stretch  so  bold  a  ken. 
Yet  knowledge  must  increase,  and  God  has  made 

A  highway  into  Sinim.     To  her  need 
Shall  Sunday-schools  be  given ; — in  the  shade 

Of  her  great  wall,  her  sons  will  sit,  and  read 
The  winning  page,  whose  precepts  lead  above ; 
And  they  will  love  the  truths  our  children  love. 


GAZE  THOU  UPON  A  FALLEN  WORLD. 

Gaze  thou  upon  a  fallen  world, 

Of  God's  once  glorious  work  a  part ; 

O'er  which  his  cloud  of  wrath  is  curled, 
And  let  thine  eyes  affect  thy  heart : 


GAZE  THOU  UPON  A  FALLEN  WORLD.  207 

A  world  where  all  have  deeply  sinned, 
Where  flows  the  curse  for  rebel  man, 

From  Arctic  to  the  burning-  Ind  : 
From  Greenland  to  Japan. 

Earth,  that  from  the  Eternal's  hand 

Came  forth  so  fair,  what  is  she  now* 
Survey  her  scath  from  land  to  land, 

Yet  of  the  ruin  ask  not  thou ; 
'Tis  seen  in  unforgiving-  eyes 

That  tell  of  baleful  fires  within ; 
'Tis  seen,  where  her  fierce  nations  rise 

To  battle,  that  'tis  Sin. 

'Tis  heard  in  every  secret  sigh 

That  tells  of  sorrow  ;  and  the  breath 
That  falters  ;  and  the  earnest  cry 

That  heralds  the  approach  of  death. 
'Tis  written  on  his  faded  face 

Who,  childless,  to  the  grave  has  gone ; 
Its  bitter  triumphs,  thou  mayst  trace 

On  every  churchyard  stone. 

And  where  are  they  that  should  have  wept, 

In  agony,  for  mortal  wo  ! 
Deem  they  the  last  command  has  slept, 

Spoke  eighteen  hundred  years  ago  ? 


208  GAZE  THOU  UPON  A  FALLEN  WORLD. 

Deem  they,  it  were  enough  to  keep 
Eternity,  themselves,  in  view — 

And  suffer  million  minds  to  sleep 
The  same  dark  journey  through? 

Wake  such !  and  weep  the  shadow  thrown 

Across  a  world  that  should  be  light ; 
Wake  such !  and  ask  that  from  the  throne 

Some  glancing  beam  may  chase  the  night ; 
That  boundless  ocean,  hill  and  plain 

Inheritance  for  Christ  may  be ; 
And  for  his  travail,  tears,  and  pain — 

The  universal  knee. 

And  wake  my  spirit ! — What  dost  thou 

For  his  possession,  sunk  in  guilt, 
That  in  its  blood  is  lying  now, 

Yet  bought  by  that  on  Calvary  spilt? 
Labour  and  pray  ! — BeHeve  this  earth 

Yet  beautiful  in  tears  and  dust — 
Shall  spring  forth  to  a  second  birth, 

Nobler  than  at  the  first. 


THE  PETITION.  209 


THE   PETITION. 

Four  things  which  are  not  in  thy  treasury, 
I  lay  before  thee,  Lord,  with  this  petition  :— 

My  nothingness,  my  wants, 

My  sins,  and  my  contrition  ! 

Southey. 

First  Cause  !  The  Good  !  Almighty  !  Thou  ! 

The  Dread,  Mysterious,  Alone  ! 
The  Rightful  King,  the  Wondrous  Now  ! 

The  Past,  the  Future,  the  Unknown 

Thou  art ! — 0  Thou  !  the  formless  years 

Of  an  eternity  are  Thine  ; 
Thy  Essence,  One,  Triune,  appears — 

All  time,  all  space,  with  Thee  combine. 

Though  terrors  shroud,  0  Thou !  thy  wray, 
Though  thunders  dwell  beneath  thy  feet, 

Thy  glory  beams,  with  kindly  ray, 
Around  the  blessed  Mercy  seat. 

Help  me,  0  Thou ! — 'tis  Thou,  alone, 
Canst  touch  my  lips  with  living  fire ; 
o 


210         THE  LORD  SHALL  GATHER  JERUSALEM. 

Though  frail,  I  would  approach  thy  throne ; 
Though  dust,  would  reach  an  angel's  lyre. 

Yet  help  me,  Sovereign  !  and  control 
Thy  subject's  wish  and  thought  to  Thee ; 

And  0,  accept  the  contrite  soul — 
The  one  ring  dear  to  Deity. 


THE  LORD  SHALL  GATHER 
JERUSALEM. 

Lo,  Judah's  courts  in  sadness  mourn, 

For  Judah's  rites  are  stained ; 
Her  shrines  with  idol  incense  burn, 

Her  altars  are  profaned. 
Her  temple's  pride  is  cast  abroad, 

Her  priests  and  virgins  fled ; 
And  gone  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 

That  once  was  o'er  her  shed. 

The  thistle  blooms  where  Zion's  wall 

Defied  the  Assyrian  band  ; 
And  Salem  totters  to  her  fall, 

The  scorn  of  Edom's  land. 


THE  FLAG  OF  THE  CROSS.  211 

Yet,  saith  the  Lord,  my  mighty  arm 

Shall  raise  her  ruins  high ; 
My  vengeance  shall  the  foes  disarm, 

Who  Israel's  God  deny. 

From  distant  lands  and  nations,  where 

The  tribes  in  bondage  roam, 
They  shall  return — forget  despair, 

And  shout  the  ransomed  home. 
In  Zion,  on  my  solemn  day, 

With  songs  shall  they  adore ; 
And  tears  and  sighs  will  flee  away, 

And  sorrow  be  no  more. 


THE  FLAG  OF  THE  CROSS. 

Beneath  thy  folds,  Flag  of  the  Cross ! 

The  gallant  vessels  trimly  go ; 
Joy  at  the  helm — delay  or  loss 

Such  heavenly  voyage  may  never  know. 

The  ships  of  Tarshish,  trooping  first, 

As  clouds,  and  homeward  doves,  are  seen; 

The  leaping  Hebrew  treads  the  dust 
Of  long  lost,  lovely  Palestine. 


212  THE  FLAG  OF  THE  CROSS. 

I  see  thee  waving  from  the  prow, 
Where  mission  feet  in  beauty  are ; 

To  sin  sick  nations  bearing  now 

The  healing  beams  of  Bethlehem's  Star. 

A  thousand,  thousand  masts  display 
To  wondering  realms,  thy  sacred  sign ; 

I  see  it  stream  o'er  sea  and  bay, 
From  either  Arctic  to  the  Line. 

I  see  thee  float,  where  ensigns,  curst, 
Had  beckoned  on  to  cruel  strife, — 

And  rusting  swords  and  tumults,  hushed, 
Tell  only  of  the  Prince  of  Life. 

Foes  tremble,  as,  from  tower  to  tower, 
They  mark  thy  glorious  signal  fly ; 

Saints  upward  look — they  know  the  hour 
Of  their  redemption  draweth  nigh. 

Oh  God,  that  hour  speed  on  !  speed  on ! 

When  sin's  tall  wave  shall  wildly  toss 
Thy  church  no  more — when,  conflict  done, 

She'll  sing  of  victory  'neath  the  Cross. 


THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO.  213 


THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO. 


All  waste  !   no  sign  of  life  : 
No  moon,  no  stars, — 
But  behold,  a  fire  ! 

Thalaba  the  Destroyer. 

'Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis  sw^eet 

To  hear  the  Sabbath  bell ; 
'Tis  sweet  to  hear  them  both  at  once, 

Deep  in  a  woody  dell. 

S.  T.  Coleindge. 


I  walked  out,  once,  from  Buffalo  ; 

'Twas  on  a  Sunday  noon, — 
My  friend  and  I — intending  to 

Come  back  by  rise  of  moon. 

I  walked  out  on  a  Sunday — not 

To  scorn  my  Maker's  rule  ; 
But  holy  time  to  keep,  and  see 

A  village  Sunday-school. 

The  winds  were  silent,  and  the  Lake 

Lay  tranquil  to  the  eye ; 
The  sky  was  bright,  the  glad  fields  wore 

The  livery  of  July. 


*214  THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO. 

I  had  with  me  a  pleasant  cruide ; 

And  we  had  pleasant  talk, 
About  the  things  that  lawfully 

May  cheer  a  Sunday  walk. 

About  that  early  Sabbath,  when 
The  spheres  their  first  notes  rang ; 

And  o'er  the  new  and  joyous  earth, 
The  stars  of  morning-  sang. 

About  the  blessed  Sabbath,  which 

Brought  Life  to  Death  again ; 
"When  Christ  passed  through  the  prison's  door, 

Where  He,  three  days  had  lain. 

And  of  the  better  Sabbath,  lit 

By  no  terrestrial  sun  ; 
Whose  temple  is  the  upper  Heaven ; 

Whose  worshippers  are  one. 

And  thus  we  talked,  and  thus  we  walked 
Four  miles,  and  something  more  ; 

And  my  friend  stopt,  and  bade  me  look 
Along  the  sloping  shore, 

And  see  the  houses  clustering, 

Like  white  doves,  on  a  hill ; 
The  tall  hotel,  the  modest  church, 

And  farther  on,  the  mill ; 


THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO.  215 

The  gardens  and  their  whitened  pales, 

The  farms  that  lay  without ; 
The  cows,  that  idly  chewed  the  cud, 

The  lambs,  that  frisked  about. 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  sight ; 

New  York  has  many  such ; 
It  was  a  very  pleasant  sight ; 

My  heart  was  gladdened,  much. 

I  praised  my  Maker  inwardly ; 

For  all  of  goodness,  is 
His  work.     Dear  Lord  !  the  city's  wealth, 

The  villages  are  His. 

It  is  a  pleasant  sight,  my  friend 

Quoth,  sadly,  unto  me ; 
But  ill  is  there,  as  presently 

I  will  relate  to  thee. 

It  is  a  very  gracious  sight, — 

An  outward  goodly  show ; 
But  much  unquietness  is  there, 

As  thou,  my  friend,  shalt  know. 

Thou  seest  yonder  steeple  shine ; 

It  marks  the  house  of  God ; 
'Tis  His,  and  yet  by  worshippers, 

Its  portals  are  not  trod  ! 


216         THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO. 

The  voice  of  music  is  not  heard, 

In  rising  sweetness,  there  ; 
Nor  is  the  knee,  within  its  doors, 

Bowed  lowly  down  in  prayer. 

The  man  of  God  is  heard  not,  now, 
Who  there  would  plead  with  Heaven ; 

Nor  pleads  he  there,  with  erring  men, 
To  seek  their  sin  forgiven. 

The  babe  is  never,  at  that  fount, 

Presented,  to  be  laved 
In  water,  token  of  the  bath 

By  which  it  may  be  saved. 

The  followers  of  Christ  may  ne'er 

Sit  at  the  simple  board, 
Where  they,  in  tears  of  faith,  behold 

Their  slain  and  risen  Lord. 

The  Holy  Ghost,  with  wings,  outspread, 

As  at  the  Pentecost, — 
Spreads  out  no  wing  of  mercy  there, 

To  save  and  shield  the  lost. 

It  is  a  fountain,  shut  and  sealed ; 

And  desolation  dwells, 
Where  healing  streams  once  issued  from 

Salvation's  living  wells. 


THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO.  217 

And  whence  such  fearful  doom  1  said  I ; 

Its  cause,  pray  tell  to  me ; 
My  friend  replied,  few  steps  remain, 

I'll  tell  it  unto  thee. 

In  prayer,  we  laid  the  corner  stone ; 

In  hope,  we  raised  the  wall ; 
And  joyed  to  think  that  here  should  some 

Obey  the  Gospel's  call. 

The  house  was  done,  the  house  by  prayer 

Was  dedicated,  then 
We  looked  for  one  that  faithfully 

God's  Bread  should  break  to  men. 

A  shepherd,  that  would  watch  for  souls, 

Most  kindly,  yet  most  bold; 
And  likewise  caring  for  the  lambs 

That  bleat  about  the  fold. 

It  was  a  Christian  minister, 

God  sent  us,  and  he  came 
To  break  the  Bread  of  Life,  and  teach 

In  his  dear  Master's  name. 

A  shepherd,  that  would  watch  for  men, 

And  kind  he  was,  yet  bold ; 
And  likewise  cared  he  for  the  lambs 

That  bleat  about  the  fold. 


218  THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO. 

And,  sweetly,  from  his  lips,  the  words 

Of  healing  mercy  went ; 
And  warning, — for  his  soul  was  stirred, 

And  he  was  truly  sent. 

And  early  taught  he — late,  he  taught, 

As  one  that  loved  his  toil ; 
As  one  whose  blessed  head  was  oft 

Anointed  with  fresh  oil. 

His  flock,  as  cedars  of  the  Lord, 
Flourished  beneath  his  care ; 

And  o'er  the  tender  plants,  he  watched, 
And  wept  in  earnest  prayer. 

The  Sunday-school,  beneath  his  eye, 

Grew  like  a  pleasant  vine ; 
And  many  of  its  precious  ones 

Did  unto  Christ  incline. 

He  comforted  the  sin  sick  child, 

Who  wept  for  hurt  within ; 
And  showed  the  trembling  penitent, 

The  Gilead  for  its  sin. 

And  when  some,  from  the  bed  of  death, 
Were  called,  and  could  not  stay, 

They  faltered  out  sweet  prayers,  that  God 
Would  bless  his  toil  alway. 


THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO.  219 

You  weep,  said  I,  and  I,  perforce, 

Keep  down  my  rising  pain  : 
I  will  proceed,  and  for  your  sake, 

Said  he,  my  tears  refrain. 

I  will  proceed,  and  tell  to  thee, 

How  soon,  this  fruitful  field, 
The  devil  entered,  but  to  sow 

What  only  tares  doth  yield. 

First,  Christians  leaned  to  indolence, 

They  went  to  hear  the  word ; 
But  leaving  prayer  behind,  'twas  naught 

But  Criticism  heard. 

Then  faction  rose,  and  jealousy, 

And  secret  whisperings  came ; 
And  serpent  Slander  set  his  tooth 

To  blight  our  pastor's  name. 

The  sinner  waxed  in  unbelief, 

And  brother  hardened  brother ; 
And  met  reproof  by  scoffing — see  ! 

How  Christians  love  each  other. 

Our  minister,  in  secret,  wept, — 

That  this  dear  church,  again 
Might  rise,  a  Pillar  of  the  Truth — 

But  wept  and  strove  in  vain. 


220         THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO. 

He  left  us.     And  with  him,  the  last 

Glad  hope,  our  village  left : 
And  since,  we've  lain  beneath  the  curse 

Of  those,  of  grace  bereft. 

The  ways  of  Zion  mourn  with  us ; 

None  to  her  feasts  will  go ; 
And  scoffers,  stumbling  at  the  church, 

Go  down,  in  crowds,  to  wo. 

The  temple's  light  withdrawn — the  shrine 

At  home,  is  also  dim ; 
Few  secret  prayers,  few  praises  rise 

From  families,  to  Him. 

One  only  ray— one  little  star, 

Gleams  sweetly  out,  to  cheer 
Our  hearts — the  Sunday-school  remains  ! 

The  Sunday-school  is  here  ! 

Our  children  had,  on  Sunday-school, 
Strongly,  their  young  love  placed ; 

It  lives,  and  thrives — an  oasis, 
Upon  this  desert  waste  ! 

The  mother  left  the  house  of  God ; 

The  father  Him  forgot ; 
But,  praise  to  Christ!  though  they  did  slight 

His  love,  the  youth  did  not. 


THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO.  221 

The  children  would  not  be  denied, — 

The  Sunday-school  was  theirs ! 
And  they  must  go  and  learn  their  hymns, 

And  join  their  simple  prayers. 

If  erring  mothers  might  cast  off, 

Religion's  priceless  gem, 
They  felt  its  worth,  and  this  to  lose, 

Might  never  do  for  them. 

If  sires  no  longer  sought  to  God, 

In  yonder  house  of  prayer, 
Dear  Lord  !  the  greater  was  the  need 

That  these,  Thy  grace  should  share. 

So  every  Sabbath,  there,  they  met; — 

Thou  seest  the  schoolhouse  near ; 
Denied  God's  house,  that  humble  place 

To  them,  indeed,  was  dear. 

Soon,  one  by  one,  the  mothers  came, 

To  see  what  'twas  about ; 
The  tasks  and  hymns  ; — the  fathers  too ; — 

A  few  came  there  to  flout. 

And  presently,  the  place  was  filled 

With  old,  and  blooming  young ; 
And  when  the  teachers  prayed,  all  prayed, 

Sung,  when  the  children  sung. 


2*22  THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO. 

Yet  'twas  not  worship  /  so  they  said, — 

They  could  not  well  agree 
To  meet  with  God,  upon  His  Day, 

In  Christian  harmony. 

And  still  they  met — and  still  they  meet ; 

And  much  of  sad  misrule 
Has  fled,  since  parents,  with  the  child, 

Go  up  to  Sunday-school. 

I've  told  my  tale  :  Come  !  dry  your  eyes ; 

Your  eyes  are  almost  dim — 
And  go  with  me,  and  see  the  school ; — 

I  hear  the  children's  hymn. 

The  children's  hymn  ! — 'twas  sweet  to  hear, 
The  wide  oped  windows  through ; 

I  wept  again, — for  with  the  tones 
Strong  voices  mingled  too. 

We  entered. — 'Twas  a  blessed  scene  ! 

The  room  was  crowded,  quite  ; 
And  each  fair  cherub  face  had  on 

A  look  of  sweet  delight. 

Delight,  that  in  their  hymn  to  God 

Each  heart  could  here  agree ; 
Delight,  because  they  loved  their  school ; 

'Twas  a  blest  company ! 


THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO.  2*23 

The  serious  parents  knelt  around ; 

In  midst,  the  children  knelt ; 
I  knelt  with  them,  and  as  I  pra3Ted, 

His  gracious  presence  felt. 

Prayer  ended,  some  few  words  I  spake 

For  God,  and  did  entreat, 
As  one,  whom  they  should  see  no  more, 

Till  at  the  judgment  seat, — 

And  counselled,  that  their  only  strife, 
Henceforth,  for  Heaven  should  be ; 

A  numerous  church,  )ret  one,  and  keep 
The  bonds  of  unity. 

And  faltering  grew  nvy  speech,  till  words 

My  tears  to  me  denied ; 
I  bade  farewell,  for  I  must  seek 

Ohio's  silver  tide. 

Next  morn,  on  Erie's  billow  borne, 

I  traced  my  western  way ; 
Yet  pondered  on  that  Sunday-school ; 

That  Star  which  tokened  day. 

And  when  in  toils  engaged — the  thought 

Of  parents,  mingling  there, 
With  children,  in  sweet  worship,  caused 

Involuntary  prayer, 


224         THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO. 

That  soon,  His  House,  no  longer  sealed 

By  Discord's  dreadful  sin, 
Again,  might  lift  its  doors,  and  let 

The  King  of  Glory  in  ! 

Oh,  wondrous  grace  !  The  glorious  King 

Came  shortly  down,  to  see 
If  any  wept  and  vowed,  henceforth, 

They  would  His  servants  be. 

To  me,  the  heavenly  tidings  came — 

My  spirit  did  rejoice, 
That  those  dear  wanderers  had  returned, 

Called  by  a  Sovereign  Voice. 

And  in  His  House,  long  desolate, 
Now  glad,  once  more,  for  Him — 

Again  was  heard  the  solemn  prayer, 
Again,  the  holy  hymn. 

And  thus  it  was :  The  Sunday-school, 

By  child  and  parent  trod, — 
Each  Sabbath,  opened  was  to  them, 

Though  shut  the  House  of  God. 

And  there  they  met ;  and  soon  the  hymn, 
And  soon  the  prayer  had  power, 

To  stir  up  kindly  thoughts,  and  then 
It  was  a  blessed  hour ! 


THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO.  225 

It  was  a  blessed  hour  !  for  soon 

The  Holy  Ghost,  like  dew, 
Came  gently  down,  and  youthful  hearts 

Were  formed  in  Christ,  anew. 

And  children  wept  for  sin,  and  gave 

Themselves  to  Christ,  away; 
The  parents  ! — how  could  they  do  less, 

Than  weep,  repent,  and  pray  ? 

It  was  a  joyful  season  ! — Broke 

For  aye,  was  sin's  misrule ; 
All  mingled  tears,  and  thanks,  for  grace 

Shown  to  the  Sunday-school. 

It  was  a  Christian  minister, 

God  sent  to  them  again; 
He  spake  the  truth  in  tenderness, — 

His  work  was  not  in  vain. 

The  flock  were  humbled, — much  they  wept, 

And  wondered  for  the  grace 
Thus  shown  to  them,  that  willingly 

Had  shunned  their  Shepherd's  face. 

And  round  the  blessed  messenger 

They  gathered  in  their  love ; 
And  He  who  binds  the  broken  heart — 

The  Everlasting  Dove — 
P 


226  THE  WALK  FROM  BUFFALO. 

Came  down  with  healing-  in  his  wing-; 

To  Christ  his  people  were 
United,  as  unto  the  vine, 

The  clustering  branches  are. 

And  now,  God's  House,  no  longer  sealed 

By  Discord's  dreadful  sin, 
Did  lift  its  spacious  doors,  to  let 

The  King  of  Glory  in  ! 

I  often  think  of  Buffalo, 

And  of  my  Sunday  walk ; 
My  pious  friend, — his  holy  zeal, — 

Our  profitable  talk, — 

And  of  the  pleasant  village,  saved 

From  Satan's  dire  misrule  ; 
And  of  God's  instrument  therein — 

His  chosen  Sunday-school. 


FALL  ON  US  AND  HIDE  US.  227 


FALL  ON  US  AND  HIDE  US. 

When  the  great  Captains  and  the  Mighty  men 
Wail  at  the  Judgment,  and,  to  shun  the  ken 
Of  searching  Justice,  call  on  rocks  aloud — 
Yea,  when  earth's  conquerors,  the  tall  and  proud, 
Shrink  from  His  coming,  and,  as  mountains  quake, 
Their  prayer  to  them  in  agony  do  make, — 
Whence   is   the  terror  1     Wherefore  quail  these 

tremblers  ? 
Whose  scorching  glances  shun  the  scared  dis- 
semblers ? 
Is  it  for  Him  who  spake  on  Sinai  1 — Fear 
The  guilty  men,  those  guarding  lightnings  here  ? 
No  ! — Thought  dwells  not  upon  Jehovah  now; 
They  heed  not  kindlings  of  the  Father's  brow ; 
Too  well  they  know,  the  anger  that  shall  damn 
To  outer  darkness — cometh  from  the  Lamb  ! 


•228       MORTIMER  BROCKWAY  AND  HENRY  BOND. 


MORTIMER  BROCKWAY  AND  HENRY 
BOND. 

Just  thirteen  years,  to  day,  our  Son  ! 

It  is,  since  that  which  gave  thee  birth, — 
And  thou,  a  little  helpless  one 

Opened  thine  eyes  on  this  fair  earth. 
And  tall  and  comely  now  thou  art, 

And  many  a  rising-  hope  have  we 
That  all  the  fond  parental  heart 

Can  ask  of  good,  'twill  find  in  thee. 
And  thou,  our  Second  !  the  twin  boy, 

Left  early  by  thy  brother  here, — 
Perhaps  for  this,  a  different  joy 

Prompts,  when  we  gaze  on  thee,  the  tear. 
In  thy  eleven  summers  past, 

Thou'st  been  a  pleasant  child,  and  thus, 
Like  a  sweet  bird  of  song,  hast  cast 

The  melody  of  peace  round  us. 
The  morning  wish,  for  both — the  prayer 

That  mingles  with  our  good-night  kiss, 
Rise,  that  in  better  worlds  ye'll  share 

The  joys,  that  tarry  not  with  this. 


229 


Linked  in  your  loves,  life's  chequered  way 
We  deem,  will  be  in  safety  trod, 

If,  resting  on  a  moveless  Stay, 

Ye  sons  of  ours,  are  Sons  of  God ! 

January  26, 1836. 


TAHITI. 

A  vessel,  laden  with  New  England  Rum,  saileth 
for  the  Georgian  Islands,  where  abide  Mission- 
aries. One  of  the  crew  beguileth  the  night  watch 
with  a  song  of  cheerfulness. 

Merrily  foams  the  dark  blue  sea, 

As  hasten  we  along ; 
Merrily  beams  the  boundless  heaven, 

Whose  stars  discourse  in  song. 

Cape  Horn !  we're  doubling  now  thy  front 

Of  tempests — now,  in  pride, 
Upon  Pacific's  gentle  breast, 

Behold  our  good  ship  ride ! 

Our  Ship — the  breeze  hath  filled  her  wings ; 
Storms  have  locked  up  their  stores  ; — 


230  TAHITI. 

And  luck  betided,  since  she  left 
The  bold  New  England  shores. 

Merrily  o'er  the  dark  blue  sea ! 

For  fairy  isles,  that  sleep 
In  beauty,  on  the  placid  wave — 

The  jewels  of  the  deep. 

Tahiti  ! — we  praise  men  that  bowed 

The  missionary  knee  ; — 
Men,  that  long  years,  watched,  warned  and  wept, 

And  prayed  and  toiled  for  thee. 

Why  fainted  they  on  thy  stern  soil  1 — 
Why  found  they  there  a  tomb  1 — 

'Tis  seen  in  rising  marts,  where  now 
The  fruits  of  Commerce  bloom. 

Their  honest  purpose  smoothed  our  path ; 

They  heralded  our  way  : 
They've  sown  the  seed,  and  we  will  reap 

Rich  harvest,  while  we  may. 


Merrily  sail  we  ! — let  good  men 
Labour  to  ease  the  curse, — 

Our  alchymy  transmutes  their  toil 
To  ingots  for  the  purse. 


new  year's  COLLOQUY.  *23l 

Merrily  sail  we  ! — laud  to  Him 

Who  holds  the  world,  we're  free ; — 

What's  the  world  for,  but  to  yield  forth 
Its  gold,  to  such  as  we ! 

Merrily  sail  they  ! — and  the  Fiend 

Laughs  loud  and  long,  as  come 
Men,  Men!  to  drench  these  lovely  isles 

In  HelVs  last  potion,  RUM. 


NEW  YEAR'S  COLLOQUY. 

I  asked  the  New  Year  as  it  came, 
Why  here  dost  will  to  be  ] 
And  it  said — 'mid  shouts  that  named  its  name,- 
To  minister  to  thee. 

Why  comest  thou  with  weal  and  wo, 
Alternate  hope  and  fear  ] — 

To  give  to  weary  man,  below, 

The  smile  and  frequent  tear. 

Thou  wilt  restore  the  absent  friend 
Again  to  my  glad  heart  ] — 

Yet  I  all  pleasant  ties  will  rend, 

And  the  joined  for  ever  part. 


232  new  year's  colloquy. 

Why  wilt  thou  deck  the  bridal  bed 
Of  youth  and  beauty's  bloom  ! — 

That  I  the  thoughtless  pair  may  wed 

Unto  the  dreary  tomb. 

Why  wilt  thou  please  the  mother's  eyes 
With  her  infant's  thousand  charms  1 — 

To  bear  unto  the  faithful  skies 

The  treasure  of  her  arms. 

Into  the  lap  why  wilt  thou  fling 
Hoards  of  uncounted  gold  ] — 

To  give  the  wretch,  ere  long,  the  sting 

Of  hopes  to  poverty  sold. 

Why  to  Ambition's  silly  few 

Wilt  thou  sing  the  song  of  fame  1 — 

To  show  of  the  bubbles  men  pursue, 

The  emptiest  is  a  name. 

Why  comest  thou  with  hymns  of  cheer  1— 
I  come,  too,  with  my  woes ; 
Voices  that  welcome  the  New  Year, 
Shall  be  silent  at  its  close. . 

0,  why  embark  upon  thy  tide, 
Earth's  millions,  without  dread  1 — 

That  in  their  laughter  they  may  glide, 

Unconscious,  to  the  dead. 


JUDGMENT  SEPARATION.  233 

Why  wilt  thou  haste  to  mingle  in 
Eternity's  wide  seal — 

That  I  one  day  may  show  his  sin, 

Who  asketh  now  of  me. 


JUDGMENT  SEPARATION. 

O  Christ  !  to  think  how  bitter  must 

The  separation  be, 
When  one,  beloved,  is  hidden  where 

Earth  lies  so  heavily  ! 

Where,  in  its  coffin,  in  the  clay, 
The  corse  congeals  to  stone ; 

Or,  silently,  the  livid  flesh 
Is  dropping  from  the  bone. 

And  yet  such  banishment,  where  vile 
Corruption  broods,  as  'twill, — 

Where  the  once  beaming  form  reclines, 
So  wan,  and  cold,  and  still — 

Is  mirth — compared  with  parting,  when 
From  presence  of  Thy  face — 

Pass  the  lost  nations,  bound  unto 
Their  fearful  chosen  place  ! 


234   SHALL  HE  UNBAR  THE  GATES  OF  DEATH. 


SHALL  HE  UNBAR  THE  GATES  OF 
DEATH. 

Shall  he  unbar  the  gates  of  death, 

And  walk  in  renovated  bloom, 
Who  now,  deprived  of  quickening  breath, 

Sleeps  in  the  quiet  of  the  tomb  ] 

Shall  he  revive  to  dawning  light, 
Who,  lowly,  seeks  his  bed  in  clay ; 

Burst  the  corroding  bands  of  night, — 

Whom  the  dull  worm  hath  made  its  prey  ! 

Shall  he  regard  the  vernal  suns 
That  bid  the  lily  deck  his  grave — 

Or  from  his  last  cold  resting  place 

Start,  while  the  wintry  tempests  rave  1 

Cease  mortal !  cease  the  idle  strife, 
Of  precedence  and  boasted  power ; 

Cease !  till  these  add  to  fleeting  life, 
Till  these  retard  the  final  hour. 


TRIUMPH  ATE.  235 


TRIUMPHATE  ! 

FOR    THE    MISSIONARIES    OF    THE    CROSS,    WHO    HAVE 
LAID  DOWN  THEIR  LIVES  IN  HEATHEN  LANDS. 


We  give  Thee  hearty  thanks  for  the  good  examples  of  all  those, 
Thy  servants,  who,  having  finished  their  course  in  faith,  do  now 
rest  from  their  labours.— Common  Prayer. 


Though  rude  the  path  they  trod, 
They've  journeyed  up,  O  God, 

Safely  to  Thee. 
Thou  givest  them  a  seat 
With  Elders  at  thy  feet, — 
What  can  their  bliss  complete  1 

Eternity ! 

Before  Thee,  who  cast  down 
Green  palm  and  starry  crown, 

With  joy  like  these  ? 
What  is  past  peril  now  ] 
What  is  Death's  sharpness  now  ] 
Their  martyr  hymn  peals  now 

As  sound  of  seas  ! 


236  TRIUMPHATE. 

Shall  plague  and  pagan  spear, 
The  widow's,  orphan's  tear, 

Our  hearts  appal  1 
The  prison,  rod,  and  chain, 
Day's  toil  and  nights  of  pain, 
To  that  immortal  train 

What  are  they  all ! 

Who's  girded  for  the  race  1 
Who  freely  takes  their  place  1 

Tell  us  !  0  tell ! 
Who'll  labour,  faint  and  die  ] — 
Perish,  to  reign  on  high ? — 
Speak  ] — for  these  wait  reply — 

Heaven,  Earth  and  Hell. 

The  Church's  chivalry 
Cry,  Saviour,  here  are  we ! 

Beneath  Thy  wing 
Folded,  though  weak,  we're  strong — 
Though  slain,  to  us  belong 
Victories — to  lutes  the  song 

We'll  give,  Great  King ! 


I  MARKED  THE  CALM  MOMENT.       '237 


I  MARKED  THE  CALM  MOMENT. 

I  marked  the  calm  moment  when,  slowly  descend- 
ing, [rest,— 
The  Sun,  robed  in  splendour,  sank  down  to  its 
While  the  pale  lingering  ray,  with  the  night  shadow 
blending, 
Still  mantled  above,  in  the  beautiful  West. 

I  sighed — but  methought  that  in  glory  appearing, 
Those  beams  will  return  and  new  lustre  display; 

Again  will  illume,  and  the  horizon  cheering, 
Appear  in  the  pride  and  effulgence  of  Day. 

I  saw  the  companion  in  beauty  late  blooming, 
The  roses  had  withered  that  once  flourished  fair  ; 

Those  lips,  late  so  lovely,  the  clay  hue  assuming, 
Were  sealed  up  in  death,  yet  a  smile  lingered 
there. 

I  wept — but  Faith  said,  at  the  latter  day  dawning, 
Affection  again  will  its  counterpart  see ; 

This  smile  is  the  prescience  of  that  holy  morning-, 
Which  calls  my  companion,  pure,  sinless  and 
free. 


238  VISION  OF  THE  HEBREW. 


VISION  OF  THE   HEBREW, 

Habakkuk  iii.  3 — 10. 

The  Eternal  God  from  Teman  came, 

The  Holy  one  from  Paran,  clothed  in  might. 

His  glory  shone  with  everlasting  flame — 
His  brightness,  beaming  with  effulgent  light, 
Dispersed  afar  the  shades  of  night. 

Before  him  went  the  pestilential  train, 
And  burning  coals  were  scattered  in  his  path ; 
He  stood  and  measured  earth's  domain — 
He  touched  the  hills — the  hills  were  rent  in 
He  saw,  and  drove  his  enemies  in  wrath,   [twain ; 
The  mountains  fled,  the  hills,  perpetual,  bowed, 
And  quivering  nature  sought  oblivion's  shroud  ! 

I  saw  the  tents  of  Cushan  mourn — 

Proud  Midian  trembled,  of  her  glory  shorn ; 

The  nations  melted  when  Thou  didst  appear ! 
The  waters  past,  majestically,  by; — 
The  deep  was  heard, — his  hands  were  lifted  high. 

Thine  arrows  gleamed,   and  with  thy  shining 

spear,  [nigh« 

Thou  walk'dst,  0  God !  to  bring  thy  vengeance 


IN  JUDAH,  NOW,  THE  MINSTREL'S  LYRE.       239 


IN  JUDAH,  NOW,  THE  MINSTREL'S 
LYRE. 

In  Judah,  now,  the  minstrel's  lyre 

Is  hushed,  for  mirth  has  winged  its  flight ; 

In  Zion's  courts,  the  holy  fire 

Is  quenched,  and  sorrow  veils  the  night. 

No  sound  disturbs  thee,  Solyma  ! 

Save  some  disciple's  lowly  moan — 
No  lamp  illumes  yon  vaulted  way, 

Save  one  pale  orb  that  burns  alone. 

'Tis  Bethlehem's  Star  !  the  holy  gem 
That  hailed  the  Godhead  from  the  skies ; 

*Tis  Bethlehem's  Star — the  diadem 
That  tells  the  Conqueror  shall  rise. 

He  rises  !  and  the  golden  choir 

Of  angel  minstrels,  wakes  the  song ; 

He  rises — mortals  !  catch  the  fire, 
And  strains  of  ecstasy  prolong. 


240  AMANDA. 


AMANDA. 

My  pretty  one  !  thou  hast  about  my  heart 
Twined  thyself,  closely,  with  thy  little  ways. 
And  much  that  heart  doth  love  thee,  whose  brief 
days 
But  fourteen  months   comprise.      My  daughter  ! 

part 
Of  every  thought — my  care,  my  joy,  thou  art. 
As,  oft  times,  I  upon  thy  future  look, 

Desiring  to  spell  out  thy  destiny 
Written  by  Heaven  in  its  sealed  book, — 

What  hopes,  what  dreams,  what  wishes  come 
to  me! 
What  smiles  !  what  tears  ! — The  Shepherd,  that 
once  took 
Unto  his  bosom,  nurslings,  like  to  thee, 
And   kindly  blessed  them — in  life's  pathway, 
wild, 
Lead  thee  by  quiet  waters ;  and  with  crook 

And  friendly  staff,  comfort  and  keep  my  Child  ! 

January  9th,  1836. 


THE  FLOWER.  241 


THE  FLOWER. 

A  Hindu,  after  spending-  some  years  in  seclusion, 
and  in  endeavouring-  to  obtain  the  mastery  over  his 
passions,  came  to  a  mission  station,  where  he  thus 
accosted  the  missionary :  "  I  have  a  flower,  a  pre- 
cious flower,  to  present  as  an  offering ;  but  as  yet 
I  have  found  no  one  worthy  to  receive  it."  Hear- 
ing- of  the  love  of  Christ,  he  said,  "  I  will  offer  my 
flower  to  Christ,  for  he  is  worthy  to  receive  it." 
This  flower  was  his  heart.  Jesus  accepted  it,  and 
after  a  short  time  transplanted  it  to  bloom  in  the 
borders  of  Eden. 

The  Hindu  said,  "  I  have  a  flower 
Of  the  morning's  earliest  bloom ; 

A  flower  for  grateful  offering, 
I'll  give  it — but  to  whom ! 

I  have  looked  on  Beauty's  glorious  smile, 

And  thought  to  nestle  it  there ; 
But  while  I  gazed,  her  loveliness 

Faded  into  thin  air. 

I  have  looked  on  Greatness,  but  with  him 
My  flower  could  ne'er  abide ; 
Q 


242  THE  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  TEACHER. 

Within  his  cold  and  stately  halls 
The  blossom  would  have  died. 

I  stole  a  glance  at  Pleasure's  seat, 
And  searched  within  its  bower ; 

But  in  its  poisonous  air  dwells  not 
The  gentle  virgin  flower. 

Fearing  the  world,  I  give  it  thee, 
0  Christ,  to  bloom  above ; 

Take  thou  and  hide  my  timid  flower 
Within  thy  bosom's  love  !" 

Not  long  for  Earth — upon  its  sweets 
Heaven  bent  approving  eyes ; 

And  soon  was  seen  this  lovely  germ 
Blossoming  in  the  skies. 


THE  SUNDAY- SCHOOL  TEACHER. 

Could  angel  choirs  demand  of  Earth 

A  theme  to  gratulate  the  throne, 
Nobler  than  young  creation's  birth, 

Sweeter  than  Heaven's  wide  vault  hath  known, — 


THE  SUNDAY-SCHOOL  TEACHER.  043 

Could  the  redeemed  lay  by  their  palms, 

And  cast  their  glittering  honours  down ; 
To  take  a  robe  of  lovelier  charms. 

To  wear  a  brighter,  fairer  crown  : 

The  theme  is  found — 'tis  Charity; 

'Tis  Charity.  Jehovah's  theme  ! 
Woven  the  robe— eternity 

Shall  brighten  and  reflect  its  beam. 
Blest  is  the  man,  whose  mite  is  given, 

To  feed  God's  poor — though  small  the  boon. 
Shall  his  reward  be  lost  ? — yon  heaven 

With  heaven's  tall  throne,  shall  sink  as  soon. 

Yet  more  exalted  he,  who  shares 

The  unwearied  Teacher's  holy  toil, 
Who  plants  the  seed,  whose  daily  prayers, 

Whose  midnight  tears  refresh  the  soil. 
Yea,  higher  shall  his  seat  be  found. 

Who  makes  these  chosen  lambs  his  care ; 
Richer  the  gems  that  gird  him  round, 

The  tear  of  pity  will  be  there. 


244  HEATHEN  CONVERTS. 


VISITS  OF  THE   HEATHEN  CONVERTS 
TO  CHRISTENDOM  DANGEROUS. 

It  was  urged,  at  the  late  annual  meeting  of  the 
American  Board,  that  a  visit  to  this  country  by  the 
Converted  Heathen  would  be  unfavourable  to 
themselves ;  because  there  is  so  much  of  wicked- 
ness manifest  here,  that  they  would  have  less  re- 
spect for  Christianity  than  when  they  left  their 
native  shores. — Conn.  Observer. 

We  hear  of  a  lovely  land  beyond 

Our  sunny  Indian  isles, 
Where  the  bright  and  perfect  blessedness 

Of  the  Sinless  ever  smiles: 
Oh  Earth  !  of  thy  glad  garden  spots, 

None  surely  is  so  blessed 
As  the  Missionaries'  native  home, 

Embosomed  in  the  West. 

Thence  holy  men  came  o'er  the  deep, 

And  soft-eyed  Woman  came, 
With  errand  to  our  shores  of  Him 

Whose  is  the  hallowed  name. 


HEATHEN  CONVERTS.  245 

That  lovely  land  is  surely  heaven, 

Of  pearl,  its  cities  are, — 
And  its  dwellers,  shining  angel  ones 

That  wait  and  worship  there. 


0  stay  ye  in  your  Bengal  bowers, 

And  stay  ye  in  Ceylon; 
The  distant  view  is  beautiful, — 

Approach,  and  it  is  flown. 
There's  darkness  over  Burmah  broods, 

The  Hindu's  chain  is  fast, 
But  there's  sadder  than  the  pagan  night, 

And  stronger  bands  than  Caste* 

The  favoured  nations  on  whom  rest 

Beams  of  the  Crucified, 
Are  they  that  bow  them  down  to  gold, 

And  wrap  them  in  their  pride. 
If  fearful  be  the  trump  that  wakes 

The  heathen  world  to  loss — 
What  speechless  doom  bides  them  that  day 

Who  perish  at  the  Cross  ! 


246        THE  CHEROKEE  WORSHIPPER. 


THE  CHEROKEE  WORSHIPPER. 

"  She  had  her  Matthew,  Acts,  and  Hymn  Book, 
very  carefully  wrapped  in  a  new  handkerchief. 
Before  the  exercises  commenced,  she  would  care- 
fully unfold  the  handkerchief,  read  a  verse  or  two 
in  the  Book  of  Life,  then  carefully  fold  up  the 
books  and  press  them  to  her  breast,  while  tears  of 
gratitude  for  the  invaluable  treasure,  bedewed  her 
sable  cheeks." 

Beyond  the  Father  of  the  Floods, 

By  Christian  pity  sent — 
To  lure  the  pagan  from  his  gods, 

The  Christian  teacher  went. 

He  taught  the  Indian,  by  the  brook, 

Of  a  bright  eternity ; 
He  taught  in  the  wilds  from  Heaven's  Book, 

And  glad  was  the  Cherokee. 

And  with  the  worshippers  knelt  one 

Who  lowly  bowed  her  head, 
As  if  observing  eyes  to  shun, 

And  tears  of  joy  she  shed. 


THE  CHEROKEE  WORSHIPPER.  247 

And  she  undid  her  handkerchief, 

And  as  she  read  of  Him 
Who  walked  Judea  once  in  grief, 

Though  Lord  of  cherubim — 

And  bowed  him  to  the  fatal  tree, 

And  drank  the  cup  of  gall, 
And  bore  the  bitter  pang,  that  she 

Might  be  released  from  thrall — 

Tears  filled  her  eyes — the  gushing  flood 

Of  sorrow,  you  might  see, 
That  it  should  cost  such  precious  blood 

To  save  the  Cherokee. 

And  while  the  tears  rolled  down  her  face, 

Unto  her  throbbing  breast 
The  Book,  that  told  her  of  such  grace, 

Most  thankfully  she  pressed. 

How  often  have  J  heard  the  same 

Glad  tidings  that  she  heard, 
And  pride  was  bowed  not  down  in  shame, 

Nor  rising  faith  was  stirred. 

How  often  have  I  listless,  pored 

Upon  the  page  of  heaven, 
Nor  wondered,  melted  and  adored, 

For  its  wealth  of  promise  given ! 


248  THOMAS  S.  GRIMKE. 

How  often  have  /  knelt  in  prayer 
Where  worshippers  have  trod — 

My  heart  was  there — the  world  was  there — 
And  absent  was  my  God. 

Henceforth  my  love  shall  constant,  burn ; 

And  profited  I'll  be, 
If  faith  and  humble  hope  shall  learn 

Of  this  poor  Cherokee ! 


THOMAS  S.  GRIMKti. 

How  many  vegetate  in  idle  life, 

A  worthless  herd  ;  Earth's  listless  cumberers ; 

Born  only  to  consume  her  liberal  fruits. 

How  many  live  in  pleasure,  seeking  still 

To  gratify  poor  self,  nor  caring  aught 

For  good  or  ill  beyond.     How  many  live 

Only  to  vex  society  with  crime — 

A  multitude,  whose  errand  to  our  globe 

'Twere  hard  to  scan,  save  that  they're  instruments 

Wherewith  the  Almighty  doth  in  anger  scourge. 

And  yet  they  live  to  tedious  old  age, 

Useless,  debased,  the  doers  of  foul  sin, 

At  once  the  land's  excrescence  and  its  plague. 

While  others,  who,  to  benefit  their  race, 


THOMAS  S.  GRIMKE.  249 

Spend  weary  years,  give  their  best  energies, 
And  know  existence  only  as  a  mean 
Of  doing  good  ;  studious  and  watchful  still 
That  this  fair  world  for  them  may  be  the  better — 
Who  by  sweet  kindness,  polish,  learning,  seem 
To  realize  the  thought  of  what  men  are 
When  purified  and  made  as  angels ; 
Even  in  the  midst  of  days  and  usefulness, 
With  all  their  honours  green  upon  them, 
Circled  by  our  fond  hopes  and  loves  and  prayers, 
Are  for  our  sins  called  hence.     They  die — 
And  we  are  left  to  weep  and  wonder  how 
Such  worth  and  moral  beauty  could  be  spared. 
Of  this  fair  company  wast  thou !     Of  those 
That  build  their  monument  where  Virtue  builds, 
Art  thou — and  gathered  to  thy  rest,  we  deem 
That  thou  wast  lent  us,  just  to  show  how  blest 
And  lovely  is  the  life  that  lives  for  all. 

1834. 


250  THE  PIOUS  RUM  SELLER'S  SOLILOQUY. 


THE    PIOUS   RUM  SELLER'S 
SOLILOQUY. 

'Tis  so — He  that  made  the  good  creature  for  use. 
Judges  not  on  account  of  its  ills  or  abuse. 
For  this,  and  all  gifts,  I  am  thankful,  'tis  seen, 
From  its  evils — if  any — I  wash  my  hands  clean. 
Many  years,  thank  the  Lord  !  I've  been  prospered, 

'tis  true, 
His  blessing  has  fallen,  refreshing  as  dew, 
On  my  basket  and  store ;    and  an  unction  doth 

dwell 
AVith  every  good  glass  that  I  swallow  or  sell. 
Oh,  how  my  full  heart  with  due  gratitude  thrills, 
As  I  think  of  the  quantities — made  up  of  gills — 
The  thousands  of  gallons  of  Brandy  and  Rum 
I've  sold ;   and  the  dollars  that  make  up  the  sum  ! 
I  began  with  slight  means,  and  the  Hearer  of  prayer, 
Though  I  dealt  by  the  small,  shed  his  benizon  there. 
I  had  crowds  in  the  morning  who  called  for  their 

dram; 
Distinguishing  favour  !  Unworthy  I  am  ! 
Every  bloated  old  drunkard  who  wanted  a  drop, 
All  praise  to  my  Maker  !  would  come  to  my  shop ; 


THE  PIOUS  RUM  SELLER'S  SOLILOQUY.  251 

As  I  gave  him  the  potion  and  took  his  last  cent, 
How  pure  my  thanksgivings  to  heaven  that  went ! 
Though  his  wife  was  in  grief,  yet  for  her  I'd  no 

fears, 
I  trusted  that  Mercy  would  dry  up  her  tears. 
Yea,  sometimes,  when  counting  my  gains  up  at 

night, 
I  have  felt  to  ask  God  for  his  blessings,  to  light 
On  her  poor  starving  children ;  and  while  at  the 

throne 
For  relief  to  her  bosom,  found  joy  in  my  own ! 

But,  0,  times  are  altered. — I  know  to  his  saints 
God  graciously  hearkens,  nor  chides  their  com- 
plaints : 
I  would  lean  on  him,  therefore,  in  confident  trust, 
That  he  yet  will  uphold  and  will  strengthen  the 

just. 
'Tis  true,  to  make  money,  my  cares  and  my  pains 
Are  not  very  trifling,  nor  small  are  my  gains ; 
Yet  neighbours  reprove  me — to  them  I  am  dumb, 
Forgive  as  I  ought,  and  invite  all  to  come ; 
And  live  in  meek  hope  that  these  matters  may 

mend : — 

Here  and  there  in  our  churches,  good  Rum  has  a 

friend ;  [civil — 

Some  too,  that  on  Sundays  will  serve — and  look 

God's  cup,  and  six  days  give  the  cup  of  the  devil. 


252  THE  PIOUS  RUM  SELLER'S  SOLILOQUY. 

Yet  I  mourn  in  my  soul  that  I've  fallen  on  times, 
When  buying-  and  selling  are  counted  as  crimes ; 
When  of  dear  reputation  no  man  is  secure, 
Though  there's  some  solace  left,  if  of  cash  he  is 

sure. — 
Alas,  for  the  profits  of  honest  lang  syne — 
The  days  when  rum  dealers  sat  under  their  vine 
Distilling  and  selling,  while  none  made  afraid, 
Except  scoundrels  that  died  ere  their  dues  they 

had  paid. 
When  holy  men  openly  bought  by  the  keg, 
Nor  a  tongue  for  the  traffic  against  them  could  wag ; 
When  times  of  refreshing  the  Sabbath  would  bring, 
In  the  shape  of  hot  toddy,  or  tumbler  of  sling ; 
And  when  our  good  parson,  not  fearing  ill  tongues, 
Took  a  glass  after  sermon,  to  strengthen  his  lungs. 

They  tell  me  of  Dobbins,  now  dead  in  his  grave, 
Who  perished  in  shame,  to  my  liquor  a  slave. 
True,  he  mortgaged  to  me,  in  his  trouble,  his  farm ; 
'Twas  spent  at  my  counter — yet  where  was  the 

harm ! 
A  mite  of  the  profits  I  gave  to  the  poor ; 
For  hoarding  each  penny  I  cannot  endure. 

Then  there  was  young  Richard,  the  carpenter's 
son, 
Stout,  happy  and  good,  till  his  custom  I  won ; 


THE  PIOUS  RUM  SELLER'S  SOLILOQUY.  253 

Sure  enough  he  would  drink,  and  if  he  would  buy, 
Some  one  must  sell  to  him ;  if  so,  why  not  I  ] 
If  I  had  not  sold  it,  my  neighbour  Smith  would ; 
His  use  of  the  money  might  not  have  been  good. 
Yet  sometimes  it  grieves  me,  I  freely  confess, 
To  think  of  his  family,  steeped  in  distress ; 
I've  almost  regretted  I  fingered  his  cash, 
Drink  made  him,  poor  fellow !  so  crazy  and  rash  ; 
For  when  the  last  glass  I  had  urged,  he  went  wild, 
And  bathed  his  own  hands  in  the  blood  of  his  child. 

Is  the  Lord  indeed  angry ! — will  he  His  wrath 

urg-e ! 
He  sendeth  against  us  the  Temperance  scourge  ! 
And  lo,  how  its  doings  do  trouble  the  saints  ! 
The  soul  of  the  dealer  is  heavy  and  faints. 
If  Abstinence  thrives — hateful  parent  of  ill — 
How  soon  may  be  strangled  the  Worm  of  the  Still ! 
Come  Famine  !  come  Fever !  with  pestilent  breath  ; 
Come  War!  and  lead  men,  by  whole  kingdoms, 

to  death ; 
But   spare   us,   of  judgments,   the   last  and  the 

worst — 
Let  not  our  dear  land  be  with  Temperance  cursed. 
Confound,    Lord,    its    schemes — for   thy   servant 

would  dwell 
In  Tophet,  as  soon  as  a  Temperance  Hotel. 


254  WHO  CARES  FOR  JACK. 

Its  agents,  its  tracts,  and  its  abstinence  ships — 
Could  a  word  blast  them  all,  it  would  rush  to  my 

lips. 
Its  warnings  to  me  of  eternity  ring, 
My  conscience  that's  troubled,  yet  writhes  with 

the  sting. 
Destroy,  Lord !  its  refuge — its  entering  wedge 
To  mischief,  that's  known  as  the  Cold  Water 

Pledge ; 
Oh,  frown  on  their  plans  who  forsake  the  old  ways, 
And  I'll  drink  to  their  ruin,  and  give  Thee  the 

praise ! 


WHO  CARES  FOR  JACK? 

Who  cares  for  Jack  1 — Not  one,  not  one ; 

Each  has  his  selfish  care, 
But  for  the  friendless  Sailor,  none 

Kind  word  or  thought  can  spare. 
Who  cares  that  still  alone  is  his 

The  ocean's  rugged  way ; 
By  night,  unquiet  rest,  and  toil 

And  bitterness  by  day  1 


WHO  CARES  FOR  JACK.  255 

Who  cares  for  Jack  1 — He  has  no  friend 

To  sooth  his  weary  wo  : 
If  tears  are  his,  no  heart  is  his 

On  which  those  tears  may  flow. 
Who  cares  when  pallid  sickness  bends 

On  him  its  angry  frown — 
Or  when  from  the  ship's  plank  he  sinks 

A  thousand  fathoms  down  ] 

Who  cares  for  Jack, — his  voyage  done  1 — 

The  eager  landlord  cares : 
And  to  the  utmost  farthing  strips 

The  victim  of  his  snares ; 
Yea,  there  are  spoils  along  the  deeps, 

And  ocean  has  its  shoals, — 
But  the  dry  land  has  more  than  these, — 

The  hopeless  wreck  of  souls. 

Hallo  !  hallo  !  the  flag  is  up, 

'Tis  nailed  unto  the  mast ; 
Thank  God  !  the  Sailor's  battered  hulk 

Is  near  the  Bethel  cast. 
Hallo  !  hallo  !  a  friendly  port, — 

From  cruel  landsharks  free ; 
Now  comrade  !  bear  a  hand  and  look, 

The  Sailor's  Home's  for  thee. 


256 


Here  shalt  thou  meet  with  noble  hearts, — 

A  willing  mess  wilt  share  ; 
And  none  to  mock  thy  true  attempt 

To  seek  thy  God  in  prayer. 
Who  cares  for  Jack ! — And  who  will  not  '?- 

When  seas  have  passed  away, 
His  soul  with  ransomed  souls  may  shine, 

A  gem  as  bright  as  they. 


JOB  XXV. 

The  moon  that  shines  with  peerless  ray, 
The  stars  that  gem  yon  vaulted  way, 
Are  brilliant  to  the  mortal  eye, 
But  beamless  to  Infinity. 

The  brightest  form  on  whom  hath  shone 
The  glories  of  the  viewless  throne ; 
Though  burning  with  celestial  hue, 
Is  shaded  in  Jehovah's  view. 

What  then  is  man — a  worm  of  earth — 
What  then  is  man,  of  sinful  birth — 
That  dares  usurp  the  Thunderer's  rod, 
And  justify  himself  with  God  ? 


SHIP  OF  THE  DEAD.  257 


SHIP  OF  THE  DEAD. 

The  following  fragment  is  from  a  legend  of  a 
former  century.  "  The  sun  was  just  rising  above 
the  horizon,  and  a  few  thick  clouds  were  gathered 
on  the  pinnacles  of  the  surrounding  hills.  As  the 
travellers  ascended  a  pile  of  granite  rocks  called 
the  Templesk  anzel,  they  saw  in  the  distance  before 
them  among  volumes  of  white  clouds,  which  rolled 
like  the  billows  of  a  hazy  ocean,  a  semblance  of  a 
ship  with  bare  masts,  and  human  figures  scattered 
on  the  deck.  Young  Hermenwald  saw  his  com- 
panion grow  pale,  and  fix  his  eyes  intently  on  the 
apparition,  which  gradually  sunk  and  disappeared. 
They  pursued  their  way  toward  the  Worm  Moun- 
tains, conversing  on  the  Spectre  of  the  Braken, 
which  has  been  for  so  many  years  the  wonder  of 
rustic  Hanoverians,  and  the  speculation  of  curious 
travellers." 

What  barque  glides  remote  on  the  bosom  of  air? 
'Mid  the  storm  cloud  she  rides,  yet  no  seaman  is 

there, 
No  banners  are  streaming,  no  canvass  is  spread, 
Her  freight  is  untold — 'tis  the  Ship  of  the  Dead  ! 

R 


258  SHIP  OF  THE  DEAD. 

All  slowly  she  mounts  on  the  foam  of  the  wind, 
And  the  breezes  of  ether  are  scattered  behind ; 
No  wave  curls  around  her,  no  seas  wet  her  bow, 
Yet  stately  her  motion  and  gallant  her  prow. 

Her  bulwark  is  crimsoned  with  eddies  of  blood ; 
The  corses  are  seen  where  the  foemen  have  stood  ; 
And  those  who  have  vanquished,  or  fallen  in  fight, 
Repose  in  dull  sleep  on  the  pillow  of  night. 

The  harp  of  the  formless  hath  wakened  its  wail ; 
The  dirge  of  the  wandering  is  heard  on  the  gale ; 
'Tis  the  song  of  the  viewless  who  night  vigils  keep, 
The  requiem  for  those  that  repose  in  the  deep. 

When  the  monarch  of  morning  shines  bright  on 

the  wave, 
When  the  wind  gods  rejoice  o'er  the  mariner's 

grave, 
The  shepherd  of  Hartz  views  afar  with  pale  dread, 
On  the  billowless  zephyr,  the  Ship  of  the  Dead  ! 


THE  SOUL  RELEASED  FROM  FEEBLE  CLAY.   259 


THE  SOUL  RELEASED  FROM  FEEBLE 
CLAY. 

The  soul,  released  from  feeble  clay, 
Drinks  at  the  fount  of  living  day  ; 
She  bathes  in  happiness  above, 
Inflamed  with  holy,  quenchless  love. 
The  pleasures  that  each  sense  refine, 
Spring-  from  the  source  of  joy  divine ; 
Their  zest,  fruition  ne'er  can  pall, 
'Tis  lasting  as  the  all  in  all. 

Come  then,  Oh  pleasing,  awful  hour, 
That  frees  me  from  each  slavish  power. 
Thou  Comforter  !  calm  every  fear, 
Saviour  !  wipe  every  trembling  tear. 
Some  sister  angel  hover  nigh, 
Compose  my  couch,  receive  the  sigh, 
And  sweetly  whispering,  Soul!  be  free — 
Bear  me  away,  my  God  !  to  Thee. 


260       WE  ARE  TOO  COLD  FOR  THOSE. 


WE  ARE  TOO  COLD  FOR  THOSE 
WHOSE  LOVE. 

We  are  too  cold  for  those  whose  love 
Should  centre,  Lord,  alone  in  Thee ; 

And  like  the  generous  flames  above, 
There  glow  and  shine  eternally. 

We  are  too  mute  for  those  that  soon 
Expect  to  sing  in  temples,  where 

The  light  is  one  all  glorious  noon, 

The  hymn  is  that  which  worlds  will  share. 

We  are  too  trifling,  whose  brief  walk 

Is  to  the  tomb's  forgetfulness ; 
Along  whose  chambers  comes  no  talk 

Of  the  earth's  giddy  nothingness. 

We  are  too  faithless  for  the  men 

Whom  God  hath  girded  to  the  fight ; 

Wliose  victory's  only  certain,  when 
The  armour  of  belief  is  bright. 

We  are  too  proud  for  those  whose  sin 
Brought  the  veiled  God  to  weep  below ; 


J 


THE  FINAL  HOUR.  261 

And  feel  the  malison  within, 
Due  only  to  his  ingrate  foe. 

We  are  too  groveling,  whose  high  aim 
Should  look  away  from  earth  to  heaven ; — 

O  Christ!  to  our  acknowledged  shame 
Let  thy  redeeming  robe  be  given. 


THE  FINAL  HOUR. 

Farewell  to  a  world  of  pain, 
Sorrow,  sighing,  now  adieu ! 

Scenes  of  toil,  of  labour  vain, 
Scenes  of  pleasure  all  untrue. 

Farewell  to  a  vale  of  wo, 

Chequered  with  the  tear  and  smile ; 
Pains,  that  bade  keen  sorrows  flow, 

Hopes,  that  dazzled  to  beguile. 

Earth  !  receive  me  to  thy  arms, 
Grave  !  unveil  thy  kindly  breast ; 

Dissipate,  ye  fond  alarms ! 
Glad,  the  weary  sinks  to  rest. 


262  TEMPERANCE  SONG. 

Severed  now  are  mortal  ties, 
Ties  so  tender,  once  so  dear ; 

Holier  transports,  kindling,  rise, 
Soon  the  worm  will  banquet  here. 

Saviour !  while  all  else  recedes, 
Thy  dear  image  still  I  see ; 

Yes,  the  same  that  intercedes 
For  the  sinner  and  for  me. 

Nearer  as  I  view  the  throne, 

God !  my  trust,  I  love  thee  more ; 

Thou  my  portion  art  alone, 
Help,  0  help  me  to  adore. 


MECHANICS'  TEMPERANCE  SONG. 

Who  are  the  Brave  if  they  were  not — 

The  mighty  men  of  Bunker-hill  1 
Our  sires ! — who'd  shrink,  if  they  did  not, 

Their  country's  glory  to  fulfil  ] 
Who  are  the  free,  if  we  are  not — 

Their  sons ! — 0  God !  of  all  thy  earth 
Seest  thou  this  day  one  blessed  spot 

As  free  as  that  which  gave  us  birth  ? 


TEMPERANCE   SONG.  263 

Who  are  the  Brave  if  they  were  not — 

The  men  who  woke  the  strife  again  ? 
And  wiped  away  the  drunkard's  blot, 

And  dashed  to  earth  his  cniel  chain ! 
Who  are  the  free,  if  we  are  not, 

Who  will  no  longer  garlands  twine 
Around  the  cup,  nor  cast  our  lot 

With  those  that  tarry  at  the  wine ! 

Rejoice  !  rejoice  ! — and  who  will  not, 

In  all  that  Heaven  has  done  for  man  ? 
If  slaves  of  drink  refuse,  yet  what 

Prevents  the  free,  who  truly  can  ] 
For  what  to  us  is  habit's  power  1 

And  what  the  sparkling  tempter's  bite  1 
Who's  here,  that  triumphs  not,  this  hour, 

In  Temperance  and  in  Freedom's  might  ? 

Who  are  the  strength,  if  we  are  not, 

Of  our  fair  country's  noble  name  1 
Without  mechanic  skill,  what  jot 

Or  tittle  lives,  to  tell  her  fame  1 
And  who  but  we,  her  lively  stones 

Shall  fit,  and  bid  the  column  rise, — 
Its  base  upon  the  warriors'  bones — 

Its  summit  hidden  in  the  skies  ! 


264  THE  TEMPERANCE  STRIKE. 


THE  TEMPERANCE  STRIKE. 

His  chains  the  tyrant  Rum,  too  long 

Has  tried  to  cast  around  us, — 
Shall  not  Mechanics  prove  too  strong, 

When  any  would  confound  us  1 — 
We  shall !  we  shall !  we  feel  our  strength,- 

And  who  no  sword  will  draw, 
When  we  for  freedom  strike  at  length  1 

Hurrah !  hurrah !  hurrah ! 

Our  fathers — who  may  see  their  like ! — 

When  trodden  down  as  cattle, 
For  Liberty  knew  how  to  strike, 

And  win  the  righteous  battle  ! 
And  shall  their  sons  be  slaves  to  drink  ? 

Oh  never  1  never !     Nor 
Will  Working  Men  like  cowards  shrink, 

No  boys  !— hurrah !  hurrah  ! 

The  pledge  to  Temperance  we  renew, 
For  she  is  Freedom's  daughter — 

In  generous  draughts  of  mountain  dew, 
In  cold  and  limpid  water ! 


BABYLON.  265 

Strike  hands  with  us  ! — for  wine  like  this 
*  The  toper  never  saw ; 
And  Woman's  lip  such  cup  may  kiss 
Unstained,  hurrah  !  hurrah ! 

Some  strike  for  wages,  some  for  hours, 

Shall  we  refuse  1 — 0  never ! 
For  time  and  cash  we  pledge  our  powers, 

And  strike  for  both,  for  ever ! 
Then  strike  who  will  for  "  6  to  6." 

We  flinch  not  in  the  war ; 
For  Temperance  and  for  Seventy-Six 

We  strike ! — hurrah !  hurrah  ! 


BABYLON. 

And  Babylon,  the  glory  of  kingdoms,  the  beauty  of  the  Chal- 
dees'  excellency,  shall  be  overthrown  ;  the  wild  bea9t  of  the  island 
shall  cry  in  her  desolate  houses.— Isaiah. 

The  mart  is  a  desert,  and  lone  is  the  hall, 

Where  the  minstrel  lent  airs  to  the  song  and  the 
feast ; 

The  fortress  hath  fallen,  the  fox  treads  the  wall 
That  girded  thee,  Babylon!  Queen  of  the  East. 


'266  BABYLON. 

How  fair  were  thy  graces,  thou  mistress  of  art, 
Thy  daughters  how  lovely !  in  purple  they  shone, 

But  the  merchant  that  decked  thee,  hath  seen  thee 
depart, 
And  the  mother  of  nations  now  wanders  alone. 

The  trumpet  of  gladness  no  longer  shall  sound, 
The  voice  of  the  harper  in  slumber  is  sealed ; 

The  beauty  of  Chaldee  no  more  will  be  found, 
For  the  lamp  of  the  Holy  is  now  unrevealed. 

The  treasures  of  Ophir,  the  gems  of  the  deep, 
The  myrrh  and  the  incense  no  solace  afford ; 

Thy  virgins  and  nobles  in  solitude  weep 

The  march  of  the  Syrian,  the  scath  of  the  Lord. 

Rejoice,  ye  Apostles  !  thou  heaven  behold  ! 

Ye  martyrs,  give  strains  to  the  Highest  again ; 
Jehovah  his  chosen  in  love  shall  enfold, 

And  avenge  the  rich  blood  of  the  captive  and 
slain. 


GENTLY  AS  FLOWS  TIME'S  NOISELESS  STREAM.    267 


GENTLY  AS  FLOWS  TIME'S  NOISELESS 
STREAM. 

Gently  as  flows  Time's  noiseless  stream, 
In  fancy  steals  the  midnight  dream ; 
Kindly  the  dear  delusive  power 
Enchants  the  soul  at  memory's  hour; 
How  sweet,  the  retrospect  to  view, 
And  revel  in  bliss  that  day  never  knew ! 

Then  thought  returns  to  scenes  of  old, 

The  deeds  to  silent  years  untold ; 

Past  joys  like  shadowy  forms  appear, 

And  griefs,  long  departed,  renew  the  tear ; 

How  sad,  the  retrospect  to  view, 

The  smile,  the  tear,  that  infancy  knew ! 

Then  wrapt  in  vision's  awful  gloom, 
The  soul,  indignant,  bursts  the  tomb ; 
Behold  her  quit  the  track  of  time, 
Prophetic,  she  seeks  another  clime  ! 
How  dread,  yon  unknown  worlds  to  view, 
With  shades  of  the  deathless  the  past  to  renew! 


THE  TENT. 


THE  TENT. 

WRITTEN  AFTER  WORSHIPPING  IN  THE  TENT  AT 
COLUMBUS,  NEW  JERSEY; 

The  region  around  which,  was  the  scene  of  David  Brainerd's 
labours. 

Spread  wings,  Jehovah  Jesus  now, 

Where  swells  this  sylvan  dome  for  thee ; 
And  graciously  thy  heavens  bow 

In  answer  to  such  dust  as  we. — 
And  as  the  Hebrew  tribes  of  old 

In  tents  like  this  with  thee  did  meet — 
Let  thy  descending  glories  fold 

Us,  who  would  touch  the  Mercy  Seat. 

Here,  where  our  snowy  canvass  springs 

So  light  and  graceful  from  the  glade — 
May  mind,  above  Earth's  little  things 

Go  up,  where  mind  has  treasure  laid ; — 
And  while  our  tabernacle's  hymn 

And  prayer  break  forth,  0  let  the  tear 
Of  penitence  these  eyelids  dim, 

And  sighs  reveal  that  Thou  art  here. 


THE   TENT.  269 

'Tis  sacred  ground — this  green  retreat, 

Where  tears  of  solemn,  strange  delight 
Flowed  once,  when  Thou  didst  kindly  meet 

With  him  whose  faith  is  changed  to  sight ; 
And  holier  unction  from  above 

Is  here  upon  our  warm  hearts  laid, 
And  loftier,  purer  is  the  love 

That  glows  where  Brainerd  wept  and  prayed. 

O  come  !  for  praise  is  lingering  still, 

Wliere  small  birds  lift  their  tiny  voice, 
The  murmuring  bee,  the  babbling  rill 

Seem  conscious  of  Thee,  and  rejoice. 
And  these  sequestered  scenes  invite 

Thought  from  this  world's  bewildering  hum, 
To  search  the  skies,  and  in  the  light 

Of  truth  discern  the  world  to  come. 

These  rounded  hills,  these  sloping  vales, 

These  woods  in  Summer's  gorgeous  dress, 
This  pleasant  sun,  these  joyous  gales 

All  tell  thy  willingness  to  bless. — 
Then  come  !  and  fill  this  waiting  place, 

And  let  us  thy  salvation  see ; 
And  sweet  and  awful  with  thy  grace 

These  woods,  and  hills,  and  vales  will  be. 

August  30,  1835. 


270  GO,  DREAM  OF  BY-PAST  HOURS. 


GO!  DREAM  OF  BY- PAST  HOURS. 

Go !  dream  of  by-past  hours  : 

In  retrospect,  once  more 
Pluck  fancy's  gayest  flowers, 

And  revel  in  thy  store. 
Go,  seek  thy  native  cot, 

Scene  of  affection  free, 
Where  pleasure  cheered  thy  lot, 

Where  love  was  all  to  thee. 

Do  this,  but  never  tell 

The  heartless  world  thy  dream ; 
Its  scorn  would  hope  dispel, 

Would  crush  the  fairy  theme : 
Do  this,  but  in  thy  breast 

Let  each  fond  wish  expire ; 
For  sorrows  unreprest 

Are  his  who  loves  the  lyre. 


UNION  PREVAILS  IN  HEAVEN.  "271 


UNION  PREVAILS  IN  HEAVEN. 

Union  prevails  in  Heaven,  from  Him 
Who  all  its  spangled  sheets  unrolled, 

Down  to  the  flaming  cherubim 

That  veils  his  face  with  wings  of  gold. 

Union  is  written  on  each  star, 
That  walks  in  music  as  it  shines ; 

And  the  dim  worlds  that  float  afar, 
Reveal  it,  traced  in  living  lines. 

In  Union  have  our  fathers  placed 
The  stone  that  God  will  not  forbid, 

Polished  and  sure — whereon  is  based 
The  Sunday-school's  fair  pyramid. 

In  Union  went  the  cloud  of  prayer, 
Their  embassy  to  yonder  skies ; 

Faltering,  and  yet  accepted  there, 
For  God  approved  the  sacrifice. 

0  Thou  !  that  sendest  blessings  down, 
The  hearing  and  the  answering  One  ! 

Smil<      •   their  toil,  and  givs  the  crown, 
And  give  the  world  to  Christ  thy  Son. 


272  THE  ROSE  THAT  DECKS. 


THE  ROSE  THAT  DECKS  THE 
LAUGHING  DALE. 

The  rose  that  decks  the  laughing  dale,  is  fair  to 
every  view,  [varied  hue ; 

Its  fragrant  sweets  embalm  the  gale,  it  blooms  with 

Sweet  is  the  rose — but  in  its  bower,  with  proud, 
intruding  mien, 

Companion  of  the  beauteous  flower,  the  rugged 
thorn  is  seen. 

The  lily  to  the  fancy  dear,  in  spotless  dress  arrayed, 
Is  gemm'd  with  morning's  brilliant  tear,  and  loves 

the  humble  shade — 
The  lily  of  the  vale  is  fair,  the  queen  of  Flora's  bed, 
But  cheerless  and  unsightly  there,  the  bramble 

rears  its  head. 

There  is  a  land,  whose  favoured  soil  sees  vernal 

flowerets  bloom, 
Where  cloudless  skies  for  ever  smile,  and  cheering 

suns  illume ; 
Immortal  plants  of  Eden,  fair,  those  heavenly  fields 

adorn ; 
The  lily  has  no  bramble  there,  the  rose  has  not  a 

thorn. 


REED  AND  MATHESON.  273 


REV.  DRS.  REED  AND  MATHESON, 

DELEGATES  FROM  ENGLAND. 

Ye've  sought  our  western  shore 
In  friendliness,  on  kind  embassy  bound ; 
The  Christian  fellowship  ye  hither  bore, 
With  us  sojourning,  ye  have  freely  found. 

New  England's  pleasant  dales, 
And  lands  beyond  the  Alleghany,  ye 
Have  visited.    Our  noble  prairies,  vales 
And  rivers  seen, — fit  region  of  the  free  ! 

Ye've  trodden  the  rich  soil 
Once  wet  with  patriot  blood ;   where  the  green 

graves 
Of  the  old  warriors  are ;  men,  not  of  spoil — 
Not  slaves  to  death — who  feared  to  live  as  slaves. 

Ye've  seen  on  fields  of  fame 

The  heaving  dome,  and  Commerce  urge  his  wheel 

Where  Ruin  dwelt ;  and  where  the  battle's  flame 

Wrapt  our  fair  towns,  bright  Peace  her  star  reveal ! 

S 


274  REED  AND  MATHESON. 

Ye've  seen  from  Plymouth  Rock 
High  influence  spread,  wide  as  the  nation  spreads ; 
And  still  in  person,  family  and  flock, 
Quickening  the  ray  which  the  pure  Gospel  sheds. 

The  arena  of  the  last 
Great  conflict  ye  have  seen,  and  where  shall  dwell, 
In  centuries  of  bliss,  the  church,  when  past 
Her  warfare,  and  when  bound  the  prince  of  hell. 

Return  with  songs  ! — delights 
Of  sacred  home  shall  win  once  more  your  smiles, — 
We  will  rejoice  that  a  new  bond  unites 
Our  own  loved  country  with  the  British  Isles. 

And  as  again  ye  tread 
Your  lovely  Albion,  and  in  thought  review 
The  hours  that  pleasantly  among  us  fled, — 
Think,  with  us  linger  thoughts  and  prayers  for  you. 

1834. 


TO  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE.  275 


TO  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE— 1822. 

Say,  ye  that  rule  with  iron  sway 

The  continental  soil, 
To  whom  the  nations  are  a  prey, 

And  liberty  a  spoil, — 

The  generous  spirit  would  ye  bind, 

Its  noble  daring  blight  1 
Say,  would  ye  crush  the  '  march  of  mind,' 

And  bring  Egyptian  night? 

Proud  Autocrat !  Deliverer,  thou  ! 

How  dim  thy  diadem, 
When  that  which  once  adorned  thy  brow, 

Is  faded  from  the  gem. 

Go,  sway  thy  sceptre  o'er  a  wild ; 

Satiate  ambition's  lust ; 
Let  parasites  salute  thee  "  mild," 

We  know  thee  deeply  curst. 

And  ye,  degenerate,  baser  kings  ! 

Unknown  to  godlike  fame — 
Shall  seas  of  patriot  blood  redeem, 

With  ages,  hence,  your  shame  ] 


276  TO  THE  HOLY  ALLIANCE. 

No  !  rescued  from  oblivion's  gulf, 

By  bigotry  and  crime, 
Your  deeds  shall  stain  the  flood  of  years, 

And  blot  the  scroll  of  Time. 

Monarchs  !  think  ye  leagued  tyrants  can, 

As  erst  in  Italy, 
Successfully  oppose,  when  Man 

Arises  to  be  free  1 

When  Freedom  quits  her  mountain  height, 

To  seek  the  battle  field, 
And  bids  her  sons  sustain  the  fight, 

With  heaven  and  hope  their  shield — 

Think  ye  the  bosom,  beating  then, 

Will  shun  the  fatal  blow  1 
Think  ye  one  heart  will  shrink  that  day, 

Till  tyranny  is  low  1 

Though  Naples,  to  her  leaden  sleep, 

Returns,  no  longer  free — 
Though  Liberty  has  fled,  to  weep 

Her  dire  apostacy — 

Yet,  Despots  !  turn,  and  trembling,  view 

Your  potency  how  vain, — 
Behold  a  generous  nation  true, 

Behold  regenerate  Spain ! 


THE  WORLD  REFUSES  ITS  SMILE.  277 


THOU  SAYEST  THE  WORLD  REFUSES 
ITS  SMILE. 

Thou  sayest  the  world  refuses  its  smile, 
Thou  art  soothed  no  more  by  pleasure, 

0  believe,  its  mirth  is  guile, 
Vain  is  folly's  boasted  treasure. 

Thy  early  friend  withdraws  his  love, 

Love  in  happier  moments  given ; 
Trust  me,  mortals  false  may  prove, 

All  is  false,  but  God  and  heaven. 

In  this  wilderness  of  tears, 

Where  the  wanderer  strays  unheeding, 
Wouldst  thou,  torn  with  doubts  and  fears, 

Seek  the  path  to  safety  leading  ? 

While  thou  viewest  a  holy  law, 
Written  with  the  bolt  of  terrors ; 

Wouldst  thou,  trembling,  weeping,  draw 
Hope's  oblivion,  for  thy  errors  ] 

Hasten  to  the  mercy  seat ; 

God's  red  thunder  slumbers  there ; 
Hasten  to  a  Father's  feet, 

God  is  nearest  when  in  prayer ! 


278  VERSES. 


VERSES, 

Occasioned  by  the  rejection  of  the  bill,  introduced 
into  the  House  of  Delegates  of  Maryland,  to 
alter  the  Constitution  so  as  to  place  the  Jews  on 
an  equal  footing  with  the  Christians,  as  it  re- 
gards political  rights. 

And  do  ye  still  reject  the  race, 

Thus  long  denied  repose — 
And  strive,  in  folly,  to  efface 

The  rights  that  heaven  bestows  1 

Say,  flows  not  in  each  Jewish  vein, 

Unfettered  by  control, 
A  tide  as  pure,  as  free  from  stain, 

As  warms  the  Christian's  soul  ] 

Do  ye  not  yet  the  times  discern, 
That  these  shall  cease  to  roam, — 

That  Shiloh,  pledged  for  their  return, 
Will  bring  his  ransomed  home  1 

Be  error  unto  darkness  hurled, 
Nor  thus  with  hate  pursue ; 
For  He  that  died  to  save  a  world, 
Immanuel,  was  a  Jew. 
1819. 


missionaries'  DEPARTURE  FOR  INDIA.        279 


THE  MISSIONARIES'  DEPARTURE   FOR 
INDIA. 

They  go — for  sincere  is  the  glad  consecration 
That  sends  them  far  hence  with  the  Gentiles  to 
dwell ; 
And    build    up    His  kingdom,    whose    precious 
salvation 
Spoils  death  of  its  sting,  of  its  victory  hell. 
Beyond  the  wild  storm  and  the  dark  heaving  ocean 

They  go  to  the  beautiful  land  of  the  sun ; 
In  whose  groves  and  sweet  valleys  reigns  passion's 
commotion ; — 
Whose  plants  must  be  gathered,  whose  dwellers 
be  won. 

There,  dead  to  the  world,  its  allurements  and  glory, 

The  toil  of  the  teacher  they'll  meekly  assume  ; 
And  patiently  tell  to  the  pagan  the  story 

Of  the  manger,  the  garden,  the  cross  and  the 
tomb. 
And  far,  far  away  from  the  home  of  their  childhood, 

They'll  watch  and  they'll  wander,  as  duty  shall 
call, 
On  wastes  and  on  waters,  by  jungle  and  wildwood, 

Unfriended,  unshielded,  yet  strengthened  in  all. 


•280        missionaries'  DEPARTURE  FOR  INDIA. 

In  Idolatry's  temples  they'll  speak  of  His  merits ; 

In  Zayats  shall  mention  be  made  of  His  love ; 
'Till  in  labours  they  sink,  and  their  sin  wearied 
spirits 
Leave  earth  for  the  holiness  centred  above. 
Do  they  falter  ?    Oh  no  !  for  in  Him  all  victorious 
O'er    sickness,   and    sorrow,   and    death    they 
will  be ; 
In  tears  and  in  trembling  they  plant,  but  how 
glorious 
The  harvest  of  souls  that  already  they  see  ! 

They  go — though  to  them,  while  as  aliens  for- 
saking 
Their  country  and  kindred,  the  future  is  dim — 
They  know  when  on  beams  of  eternity  waking, 
The'll  find  more  than  country  and  kindred  in 
Him. 
They  climb  the  tall  vessel — and  why  doth  emotion 
That  swells  in  each  heart,  of  regretings  yet 
tell]— 
Because  they  have  not,  for  one  life  of  devotion, 
Ten  thousand  for  Him  who  has  loved  them  so 
well. 

They  leave  us  for  time,  and  we  them  now  com- 
mitting 
To  Him  who  trod  greatly  the  billows  of  old, 


MISSION  SHIP.  281 

Entreat  that  us,  severed — His  will  so  permitting — 

In  life,  may  be  finally  one  in  His  fold. 
0  Jesus  !  who  wept  in  the  days  of  thy  sorrow 
With  those  that  were  weepers,  thou  chidest  not 
now; 
Though  in  tears  to-day  parting,  there's  hope  for 
the  morrow ; 
That  hope,  and  that  joy,  and  fruition  art  Thou  ! 


THE  CHARLES  WHARTON,  MISSION  SHIP, 

WITH  THE  PRECEDING  MISSIONARIES. 

That  Ship  !  that  Ship  !  why  on  her  way 
Doth  thought  so  fondly  linger  still  ] 

High  o'er  her  bows  the  surges  play, 
Her  sails  the  urging  breezes  fill — 

She  pushes  nobly  through  the  foam ; 

That  Ship  !  that  Ship  !  why  cluster  there 
Remembrances  of  love  and  home, 

And  early  joys  and  hours  of  prayer] 

That  Ship  !  that  Ship  !  she  hath  with  her 
Hearts  strongly  linked  within  our  heart ; 


282  MISSION  SHIP. 

Names  that  awake  its  kindly  stir — 

God  speed  them  ! — yet  'twas  hard  to  part. 

She  hath  with  her  our  cherished  child — 
A  brother,  sister,  treads  her  deck  ; 

Part  of  ourselves  are  on  the  wild 

Wide  waves,  the  field  of  many  a  wreck. 

Their  gaze  !  their  gaze  !  we  see  it  yet — 
What  years  were  in  that  earnest  look ! 

The  expression  we  may  not  forget, 
As  eye  from  eye  the  farewell  took. 

'Twas  something  of  Earth's  love,  but  much 
Of  Heaven  lit  up  each  beaming  face ; 

'Twas  sweetly  solemn — only  such 
As  speaks  unwonted  inward  grace. 

That  Ship  !  she  left  us  yesterday, — 

Our  words  were  few,  but  tears  were  given ; 

Last  sobs,  last  looks, — she's  on  her  way, 
And  we  have  left  them  all  with  Heaven ! 

The  sea  reflects  her  silver  track, 
Our  steps  to  silent  home  are  bent ; 

We  would  not,  dare  not  beckon  back 
The  messengers  that  God  hath  sent. 


TO  NEW  YORK.  283 

That  Ship  !  that  Ship  !  what  teeming  clouds 
Of  blessing's  wrap  her  as  she  sails ! 

What  suppliance  follows  as  she  crowds 
Her  canvass  to  propitious  gales  ! 

That  beautifully  may  be  found 

Glad  feet  on  many  an  idol  hill ; 
'Till  Sharon's  roses  cheer  that  ground, 

And  streams  of  Life  those  valleys  fill. 

November  17,  1835. 


TO  NEW  YORK,  IN  1832. 

New  York  !  New  York  !  again  in  tears 

Of  bitterness,  thou  weepest  sore ; 
On  thee,  the  angry  cloud  appears, 

And  heavily  the  tempests  lower. 
Within  thy  gates  the  voice  of  wo 

Is  heard,  there  lingers  fell  despair ; 
The  beauty  of  thy  house  is  low, — 

The  pale  Destroyer  walketh  there. 

The  aged  father's  heart  is  riven, 
His  prop  is  hurried  to  the  grave ; 


284  TO  NEW  YORK. 

The  babe,  sweet  cherub,  lately  given, 
Hath  fled,  God  claims  the  boon  He  gave. 

In  Ramah,  lamentation's  sigh, 

The  midnight  burst  of  grief  was  known, 

In  thee  how  oft  the  mother's  cry, 

Hath  told,  her  bosom  treasure's  flown ! 

While  in  thy  street  the  trophied  King 

Rides  forth  upon  his  phantom  steed — 
And  bids  his  lance  new  conquests  bring, 

And  bids  again  fresh  victims  bleed, — 
Be  ours  the  sympathising  part 

To  pluck  away  the  rankling  spear ; 
Be  ours,  upon  the  broken  heart, 

To  drop  Compassion's  holy  tear. 

0  Thou  !  who,  on  the  storm  careering, 

Deal' st  the  red  thunder  to  thy  foes, — 
0  Thou  !  who  in  the  calm  appearing, 

Speak'st  to  the  trembler  sweet  repose, — 
We  ask  thy  help,  for  help  is  thine ; 

Bid  the  Death-Angel  now  forbear ; 
Though  'neath  thy  footstool  terrors  shine, 

The  mercy  seat,  0  God !  is  there. 


FROM  ALL  THAT  CAN  INTOXICATE.      285 


FROM  ALL  THAT  CAN  INTOXICATE  ! 

From  all  that  can  Intoxicate  ! 

The  princely  Pledge  that  saves 
From  million  crimes  that  ready  wait, 

From  grief  and  early  graves ; — 
From  ruin,  and  the  certain  grasp, 

That's  pitiless,  of  law ; 
And  from  the  sorer  doom  that's  ripe, 

When  Heaven  its  sword  doth  draw. 

From  all  that  can  Intoxicate  ! — 

O  thou  of  brilliant  star, 
To  whom  all  sweet  and  delicate 

Refinements,  kindred  are, — 
To  splendours  of  thy  intellect 

We  homage  give,  yet  these 
May  gild  the  Inebriate's  brimming  bowl, 

Or  flash  upon  its  lees. 

And  dream  not,  in  thy  pride  of  place, 
Such  wretch  thou  ne'er  canst  be ; 

The  thunder  that's  unseen  has  dropt 
On  many,  like  to  thee  ! 


286  FROM  ALL  THAT  CAN  INTOXICATE. 

And  think,  if  thou  art  lifted  up, 

It  may  be  only  thence 
That  thou  shalt  fall  as  others  fell, 

Who  braved  Omnipotence. 

Give  thou  the  Pledge  ! — The  rolls  of  fame 

From  stain  are  not  exempt ; 
And  ills  may  touch  thy  goodliest, 

That  presage  never  dreamt. 
'Tis  safety  for  thy  budding  child — 

The  germ  thou  hast  not  priced — 
For  the  warrior,  the  counsellor, 

The  minister  of  Christ ! 

And  art  thou  one,  indeed,  that  stood 

With  generous  men  on  high, — 
One  counted  with  the  wise,  till  sold 

To  this  captivity  ] 
By  that  sweet  love  some  gave  to  thee, 

The  love  thou  gav'st  again — 
By  Heaven,  as  yet  not  all  renounced — 

By  Hell,  renounce  the  chain ! 

From  all  that  can  Intoxicate  ! — 

This  panacea  will 
Suck  out  the  poison  from  thy  heart, 

Its  fevered  throbbings  still, — 


FROM  ALL  THAT  CAN  INTOXICATE.  287 

And  dry  the  hot  and  bitter  tear, 

And  melt  away  the  frost 
That  hung-  about  thy  soul,  when  thou 

Didst  deem  thyself  the  lost. 

From  all  that  can  Intoxicate, 

Give  pledge,  and  thou  art  kept 
From  woes  that  on  the  drunkard  wait, 

From  seas  that  he  has  wept ; — 
From  that  which  binds  continually 

His  mind  as  with  a  spell ; 
And  bars  out  hope,  and  locks  on  him 

The  triple  door  of  Hell. 

And  oh,  to  be  e'en  here,  the  butt 

At  which  the  jibe  is  thrown ; 
To  find  the  heart  of  welcome  shut, 

Whose  pulses  were  thine  own ; — 
To  be  forsaken  in  the  place 

Where  once  thou  hadst  respect ; 
To  be  by  angel  Woman  scorned, 

Thy  hopes  of  Woman  wrecked, — 

To  be,  in  gray  hairs,  forced  to  blush 

At  presence  of  a  son ; 
Or  feeling  lost,  to  lift  thy  front, 

As  if  not  thus  undone : 


288  FROM  ALL  THAT  CAN  INTOXICATE. 

To  meet  an  aged  sire's  reproach, 

A  mother's  silent  look ; 
To  read  on  pleasant  things  of  home, 

Ban  of  the  judgment  book, — 

To  be  a  living,  loathsome  corpse, 

A  moving  rottenness ; — 
To  glut  the  hungry  worm,  before 

Thou  dost  the  coffin  press  ; — 
To  be  a  leprosy  within 

The  camp,  and  in  the  sight 
Of  scoffers,  show  thy  filthiness, 

Thy  sin  to  open  light, — 

To  be  cast  out  from  decencies 

Of  life,  and  only  named 
In  whispered  stealth,  as  one  by  whom 

Humanity  is  shamed  ; — 
To  die — and  by  thy  death  to  give 

Joy,  where  lament  should  be ; 
To  lie  in  an  unblessed  tomb, 

Alone  with  infamy ; — 

If  thou  canst  be  and  suffer  this, 
Oh,  less  than  Man  !  give  up 

The  hopes  of  man,  and  take  the  bliss 
That's  left  thee  in  the  cup  : — 


FROM  ALL  THAT  CAN  INTOXICATE.      289 

Yet  if  thy  sickening  thought  abhors 

Such  unimagined  pain, 
From  all  that  can  Intoxicate — 

From  thy  soul's  death  refrain  ! 

From  all  that  can  Intoxicate  ! — 

This  charm  shall  potent  be 
To  lay  the  busy  fiend  that  wastes 

Our  land,  beneath  the  Sea. 
Our  land !  beloved  and  beautiful, — 

What  boots  it  that  her  shrine 
The  nations  heap  with  offerings, 

If  thus  debased  by  Wine ! 

From  all  that  can  Intoxicate  ! — 

Omnipotent  its  strength 
To  overcome  the  tyrant  foe, 

And  bid  us  live  at  length. 
Oh,  set  its  characters  on  high — 

And  to  the  world  be  given, 
Blazed  on  the  everlasting  sky, 

The  Pledge  that's  worthy  Heaven ! 


290  death's  changes. 


DEATH'S  CHANGES. 

Death's  changes  are  seen  every  where, — 

Know'st  thou  exempted  spot, 
Hath  mortal  ever  journeyed  there, 

Where  Death  hath  journeyed  not? 
Baronial  hall,  or  kingly  tower — 

Or  lowly  peasant's  cot  ] 

Oh  no  !  'tis  not  the  dwelling  place 

Where  loving  ones  abide, — 
Amid  its  cheerful  haunts  I  trace 

Death  walking  in  his  pride, — 
The  old  man's  olive  plant  to  kill, 

That  grew  up  at  his  side. 

Nor  is  it  in  that  busy  town, — 

Each  year  inroads  I  find — 
And  families  of  old  renown 

Are  scattered  to  the  wind. 
Death  breaks  them  up. — Of  ancient  friends, 

Oh,  who  are  left  behind  ! 


death's  changes.  291 

Nor  is  it  in  the  market — thou 

Whose  sands  are  at  the  last, 
Seest  there,  a  crowd,  as  eager  now, 

As  crowds  in  time  long'  past. 
And  yet  new  voices  reach  thine  ear, 

New  looks  are  on  thee  cast. 

And  name  not  thou  the  church  to  me, 

As  place  unknown  to  change, — 
The  aspect  of  the  flock,  I  see, 

Each  Sabbath  waxes  strange. 
Continually,  Death  manifests 

He  here  hath  ample  range. 

Nor  may'st  thou  point  to  yonder  lands, — 

Their  former  masters  sleep 
In  their  old  orchards, — other  hands 

The  broad  possessions  keep. 
And  these,  in  time,  shall  pass  away, 

And  others  sow  and  reap. 

Death's  changes  are  seen  every  where, — 

Look  on  the  coronet ! 
And  look  on  beggary,  and  there 

Thou  seest  his  finger  yet. 
And  who  that  ponders,  as  he  goes, 

Such  changes  may  forget  1 


*29'2  death's  changes. 

May'st  thou,  young  man,  of  healthful  face  1 
Or  think'st  thou,  he  will  spare 

To  bow  thy  form  of  perfect  grace, 
Or  damp  thy  shining  hair ! 

Thy  frame  is  strongly  knit,  yet  seeds 
Of  change  and  death  are  there. 

May'st  thou,  oh  sweetly  witching  girl ! 

Whose  step  is  like  the  roe  ? 
Or  think,  while  in  the  giddy  whirl, 

It  will  be  always  so  ] 
A  change  will  Death  bring  over  thee, 

Fair  flower  !  and  lay  thee  low. 

Sweet  cherub  babe  !  from  yon  bright  world, 

Lent,  to  sooth  care  in  this — 
Within  thy  mother's  fond  arms  curled, 

Who  prints  on  thee  the  kiss — 
She  knows  not,  pointed  is  the  dart 

To  thee,  that  cannot  miss. 

Death's  changes  every  where  are  felt, — 

The  Sea's  wide  field  of  blue, 
The  Earth,  and  Heaven's  starry  belt, 

Shall  fade  and  perish  too, — 
Be  He,  that  hour,  my  changeless  Stay, 

Who  maketh  all  things  new  I 


O,  OFT  HAVE  I  WEPT.  293 


0,  OFT  HAVE   I  WEPT,  WHEN  THE 
WILD  WAKENED  STRAIN. 

0,  oft  have  I  wept,  when  the  wild  wakened  strain, 

In  sadness,  has  murmured  of  wo; 
As  its  thrill,  gently  healing  my  own  bosom  pain, 

Bade  the  tribute  of  sympathy  flow. 

0,  oft  would  the  gleamings  of  rapture  succeed, 

As  the  cadence  of  happiness  stole ; 
When  hope  fondly  smiled,  and  the  wounds  wont 
to  bleed, 

Acknowledged  its  balmy  control. 

But  ne'er  is  the  thrill  which  awakens  the  tear, 
Nor  the  cadence  that  vibrates  delight, 

Though  melting  in  rapture,  to  me  half  so  dear, 
As  thy  notes,  lonely  bird  of  the  night ! 

While  saddened,  I  list  to  the  deep  plaintive  song, 
Memory  wakens,  disdaining  control ; 

The  dim  flood  of  ages  rolls  darkly  along, 
It  comes  with  its  deeds  on  the  soul. 

Then  those  whom  I  loved,  by  affection  endeared, 
Who  repose  where  the  tall  elders  moan, 


294  THE  TRACT  LEFT  AT  MY  HOUSE. 

In  the  still  passing  whispers  of  evening"  are  heard, 
As  they  sigh  o'er  the  days  that  have  flown, — 

I  gaze  with  emotion  :  I  gaze, — but  they've  fled, 
See !  slowly  their  forms  disappear ; 

Naught  remains  but  the  ray  on  the  cold  heathy  bed, 
And  the  trace  of  the  last  lonely  tear. 


THE  TRACT  LEFT  AT  MY  HOUSE. 

A  modest  female,  lately,  at  my  door, 

Solicited  that  I  would  take  her  boon. 

It  was  a  Tract.    I  took  and  thanked,  and  soon 
Began  to  read  ;  what  was  it  moved  me  so  ] 
For  Sin  no  Trifle  I  had  read  before, 
When  o'er  its  page  would  tears,  unbidden,  flow. 

And  still  I  read,  and  still  it  seemed  to  me 
Authority's  own  herald,  and  I  felt 
Awed  at  its  presence.     Nor  could  I  but  think 

To  entertain  the  guest  thus  proffered  free. 
I  read  with  tears  for  sin ;  yet,  joyful,  knelt 

And  blessed  my  God  that  Truth  wells  every  where 
Waters  of  Life ;  and  freely  may  men  drink. 

For  this  I  did  His  gracious  praise  declare. 


THE  FIREMEN'S  HYMN.  295 


THE  FIREMEN'S  HYMN. 

At  midnight's  calm  and  careless  hour, 

When  silken  dreams  the  slumberer  claim, 
To  startle  from  their  pleasing  power, 

And  grapple  with  the  bursting  flame — 
To  hear  without,  the  rush  of  feet, 

And  trumpets'  deep  appalling  din ; 
To  madly  strive,  and  no  retreat 

To  find  from  burning  death  within  : — 

A  wife's  imploring  agony ! 

A  cry  from  childhood's  distant  room  ! 
0,  gracious  God  !  for  wings  to  fly 

And  save  them  from  the  raging  doom. 
Relief  is  near ! — the  Fireman's  grasp 

Is  on  them,  and  his  ready  arm 
Has  borne  the  living  from  the  clasp 

Of  Death,  and  wife  and  babe  from  harm. 

The  tear  of  gratitude,  the  joy 

Of  giving  joy  to  keen  depair, 
— Earth's  only  cup  without  alloy — 

Are  known  and  felt,  not  spoken  there. 


296  ALCOHOLIC  WINE  AT  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER. 

And  these  are  ours !     0  Thou,  may  we 
Look  ever  to  the  fountain,  whence 

All  mercy  flows,  and  learn  of  Thee, 
Who  art  thyself,  Benevolence. 


ALCOHOLIC  WINE  AT  THE  LORD'S 
SUPPER. 

Is  it  for  such  a  rite  as  this 

Ye've  kept  till  now  the  wine, 
That  ne'er  was  crushed  from  generous  grapes, 

That  tastes  not  of  the  vine  ] 
Is  it  that  the  disciples,  who 

Are  robed,  with  Christ  to  sup, 
From  hand  to  hand,  unconsciously, 

May  pass  a  poisoned  cap  1 

Is  it  for  this  we  chased  the  foe 

From  his  last  lodgment  in 
Our  homes  and  hearts,  and  scorned  to  touch, 

Or  make,  or  sell  the  sin  1 
We  chased  him  forth — but  was  the  pest 

Thrust  out,  a  thing  abhorred, 
From  households,  to  be  handled  here, 

In  memory  of  our  Lord  ! 


ALCOHOLIC  WINE  AT  THE  LORD'S  SUPPER.   297 

'Tis  so — I  taste,  and  other  thoughts 

Than  Calvary,  spring  to  birth  ; 
I  muse  not  of  the  Roman  cross, 

Veiled  sky  and  bursting  earth, — 
Not  of  the  glorious  Sufferer, 

I  think,  but  of  the  crime 
For  ages  wrought  by  Alcohol — 

What  theme  for  such  a  time  ! 

Of  old  the  Jewish  incense  curled 

Where  stood  uncovered  feet; 
And  odours  flung  their  sweet  breath  out 

Where  flamed  the  Mercy  Seat — 
Not  such,  that  at  our  festival 

Steals  round  the  temple  wall ; 
We  seek  communion  mid  the  fumes 

Of  pungent  Alcohol. 

A  wanderer,  returned,  I  see 

Beside  me  at  the  board ; 
I  know  that  Alcohol,  he  once 

Above  his  God  adored — 
Shall  I  not  tremble  as  he  lifts 

Such  chalice  to  his  lips  ] 
Yea,  agonize  with  terror,  as 

He  of  the  emblem  sips  ] 


298 


I  know  that  he  is  mortal  still — 

I  know  temptation's  there — 
O  Saviour  !  that  thy  blessed  cup 

Should  be  to  him  a  snare ! 
Shall  I  not  wish  that  wine,  henceforth 

Unmixed  with  drugs  of  hell, 
May  at  that  banquet,  of  the  blood 

Of  my  Redeemer  tell  1 


RELIGION. 

Religion  !  thou  art  all  a  noble  theme 

For  inspiration,  thou  thyself  inspired. 

Wakener  of  bliss,  beyond  the  poet's  dream, 

Daughter  of  Love,  in  majesty  attired, 

Thou  walk'st  the  heavens,   yet  converse  hold'st 

with  men. 
Dweller  in  Light !  within  whose  ample  ken 
Lies  the  broad  realm  of  happiness,  I  greet 
Thee,  Essence,  not  approachless.    With  glad  feet 
Will  I  attend  thee,  Source  of  all  my  joy, — 
And  quaff  at  thy  right  hand  pleasures  that  ne'er 

will  cloy. 


THE  BAPTIZED.  209 


THE  BAPTIZED. 


Over  that  child,  now  sunk  in  shame, 
While  listened  heaven's  admiring  host,- 

In  prayer  was  named  the  blessed  Name 
Of  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

Baptismal  waters  bathed  his  brow, 

In  sign  of  covenant,  who  now 
Is  counted  as  the  lost. 

He  grew  in  youth.     The  father's  prayer 
Went  up  for  him  to  Mercy's  bower ; — 

For  him,  was  seen,  appealing,  there, 
The  mother's  tear  of  holy  power. 

As  parents  should,  they  agonized 

For  promises  to  the  Baptized, 
Performed  in  gracious  hour. 

He  grew  in  manhood.     Yet  no  sign 
Saw  they,  of  renovating  grace  ; 

No  token  of  the  life  divine, 

In  word  or  action,  could  they  trace. 

The  quiet  pleasure  of  the  heart, 

Whose  choice  is  still  the  better  part, 
Was  not  upon  his  face. 


300 


THE  BAPTIZED. 


Self-willed,  he  left  the  shielding  dome, 
Threw  off  the  yoke,  that  he  might  be 

From  the  restraints  and  tears  of  home, 
Its  prayers  and  kind  monitions  free. 

And  of  his  wanderings  the  spot 

None  knew,  few  cared,  wThose  chosen  lot 
Was  hopeless  misery. 

He  knows  not,  yet  he  cares*— the  sire, 
Whose  hair,  since  then,  has  waxed  gray ; 

She  cares — whose  frame,  the  keen  desire 
To  clasp  the  absent,  wastes  away. 

When  storms  are  up,  with  thunders,  wild, 

She  fears  for  her  unsheltered  child, 
And  goes  apart  to  pray. 

Where  is  he,  for  whom  agonized 

Those  parents  in  his  infancy  1 
WThere's  he — the  cherished,  the  Baptized — 

The  prodigal,  Oh,  where  is  he ! 
Upon  sin's  billows  rudely  tost, 
For  this  world,  to  appearance,  lost, 

For  Heaven,  too,  it  may  be. 

Yet,  train  thy  child  in  wisdom's  way, 
Saith  Wisdom,  and  when  he  is  old, 

From  that  fair  path  he  shall  not  stray, 
Like  one  that  is  to  folly  sold. 


THE  BAPTIZED.  301 

That  word  is  truth  ! — Old  man,  bereft 
Of  thy  first  born,  by  sin,  why  left 
Thy  child  the  Shepherd's  fold  ? 

Some  lapse  of  thine  is  with  thy  grief 

Blended,  some  error  in  the  link, 
That  bound  his  love  to  thee,  is  chief 

Of  wo  that  presses  now ;  yet  think ! 
There's  power  for  thy  lost  son  with  God — 
Despair  not,  No  !  though  he  hath  trod, 

Thus  daringly,  hell's  brink. 

Over  that  child,  now  sunk  in  shame, 

While  listened  heaven's  admiring  host — 

Remember !  once  was  named  the  Name 
Of  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost. 

There's  hope  for  him  who  wears  such  sign, 

Though  vile — that  he,  through  grace,  divine, 
Forgiven,  shall  love  most. 
1836. 


302  TO  A  MISSIOxNARY. 


TO  A  MISSIONARY. 

When  Jesus  led  his  faithful  few 

To  Bethany,  where  they,  alone, 
Favoured  of  their  loved  Lord,  should  view 

His  transit  to  his  upper  throne, — 
Why  stood  the  cloudy  chariot  still, 

Upborne  by  servants  of  the  sky  1 
Why  halted  they  who  do  God's  will, 

When  the  deep  thunder  bids  to  fly  1 

'Twas  for  the  promise  given  to  those, 

His  sojourners  in  sorrow  here — 
To  solace  them  his  mercy  chose ; 

To  dry  the  pilgrim's  starting  tear. 
How  tender  were  the  words,  whose  oil 

Soothed  each  disciple's  anxious  heart, — 
Confirmed  the  strong,  prepared  for  toil 

The  faint,  to  act  the  martyr's  part ! 

Go  preach  my  word  !  bid  Gentile  lands 
Shake  off  their  night ;  seek  those  astray ; 

Unloose  the  captive's  slavish  bands, 
Release  from  mental  death  its  prey, — 


TO  A  MISSIONARY.  303 

Lo,  I  am  with  you  to  the  end ! 

He  spake,  and  on  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
The  Son  of  Man,  the  sinner's  Friend, 

Of  Earth  restored,  ascended  King. 

Go,  Missionary  ! — meekly  bear 

Thy  cross,  thy  shame, — 'twill  be  thy  crown ; 
Thy  burden — light,  beyond  compare, 

To  that  which  crushed  the  Godhead  down. 
The  mountains,  desert,  and  the  sea, 

That,  painfully,  thou  wanderest  o'er, 
Have  dangers — vanquished,  yet  to  thee, 

For  these  thy  Master  trod  before. 

Thou  goest  to  perils — yes,  the  tomb, 

Ere  long,  will  claim  its  willing  prey; 
Yet  courage  !  He  who  rent  its  gloom, 

Poured  on  that  couch  eternal  day. 
Farewell !  although  these  eyes,  no  more, 

To  thee  the  heart's  warm  kindlings  wear, 
Yet,  sinless,  joined  on  yonder  shore, 

Love,  quenchless  Love,  shall  quicken  there. 


304       0,  WHAT  IS  LIFE  BUT  SOME  DARK  DREAM. 


0,  WHAT  IS  LIFE   BUT  SOME  DARK 
DREAM. 

0,  what  is  life  but  some  dark  dream, 

From  which  we  wake  to  sigh, — 
A  false  uncertain  meteor's  gleam, 
That  sheds  a  wandering  cheerless  beam, 
And  brightens,  but  to  die  1 

O,  what  are  fleeting  joys  below, 
But  cares  bedecked  with  smiles, — 

The  pageant  of  an  empty  show, 

That  fain  would  hide  a  latent  wo 
From  him  it  thus  beguiles  ] 

And  what's  the  secret  pensive  tear, 

But  kindly  dew  of  Even, — 
A  drop,  pellucid,  glistening  here, 
To  sympathy,  to  virtue  dear, — 

Quickly  exhaled  to  heaven  ! 


NEW  YEAR  THOUGHTS.  305 


NEW  YEAR  THOUGHTS. 

Years,  many,  I've  not  seen.    Experience 

With  me,  is  small,  and  brief  my  observation ;  yet 

My  aged  friend,  a  good  ripe  patriarch,  who 

Is  in  the  winter  of  a  green  old  age, 

And  has  known  many  changes,  tells  me  thus : 

That  time,  so  pregnant  with  important  meaning, 

And  big  with  matter  of  high  moment,  he 

Has  never  seen,  as  the  twelve  months  which  now 

Are  ebbing  out  their  last.     Has  not,  said  he,  the 

flood 
Borne  to  the  narrow  house,  illustrious  names — 
Men,  famed  for  arts  and  arms,  who  but  just  now 
Were  here,  and  now  are  mingled  with  Eternity  1 
Has  it  not  wafted  to  our  ear,  the  cry 
Of  the  stern  rider  who  hath  in  his  hand 
Arrows  of  death,  and  who  in  haste  came  on, 
And  swept   our   dwellings  ]     Have   not  warlike 

sounds 
Come  o'er  us — not  from  Britain  or  from  Gaul — 
But  from  the  bands  of  brethren  in  our  midst ; 
Telling  that  fathers  against  sons  have  risen, 
And  brothers  to  meet  brothers  buckle  on 
The  exterminating  sword,  to  lay  in  dust 

TJ 


306  NEW  YEAR  THOUGHTS. 

The  temple  reared  by  the  old  warriors'  toil, 
And  unto  Freedom  consecrate  with  blood  ? 
This,  and  much  more  to  sadden  thought — and  yet 
My  friend  rejoices,  and  to  see  his  joy 
I  marvelled ;  till  he  told  me,  that  God  reigneth, 
And  will  protect  his  own.    The  Church  is  safe! 
Bears  not  that  flood  glad  tidings  of  the  men 
Who,  counting  the  rich  sweets  of  country,  home, 

but  naught 
Compared  with  duty,  cast  them  freely  off, 
And  haste  to  spend  themselves  for  Christ,  abroad, 
And  take  the  Missionary's  weary  lot, 
And  lay  their  bones  in  missionary  ground  ] 
Hear  we  not,  too,  that  God's  returnless  Word 
Is  reaching  nations,  soon  to  bless  the  world 
With  life  and  light,  of  which  the  shepherd's  Star 
That  rose  on  Bethlehem,  was  but  the  sign  1 
That  He  who  built  the  earth,  and  channelled  out 
The  rivers,  its  highways,  has  brought  to  light 
Their  courses,  that  his  word  may  have  free  scope ; 
Yea,  that  to  every  continent,  be  sent 
Heralds  of  mercy,  and  the  broad  bright  streams 
Whose  banks  see  millions  unredeemed,  may  soon 
Be  visited  with  love  !    And  hark  !  what  melody 
Already  rises  on  the  ear  1    Oh  !  different,  far, 
From  cries  of  wo,  with  which  the  slave  too  long 
Has  vexed  high  Heaven,  is  that  blessed  song 
Of  Africa,  released,  heard  in  her  thousand  tents 


NEW  YEAR  THOUGHTS.  307 

Of   prayer,    and    gladdening    all    her    blooming 

wastes. 
And  look  we  to  our  own  beloved  West — 
The  West,  whose  mighty  rivers  and  broad  lands, 
Whose  sons  of  energy,  proclaim  that  here 
Is  the  fit  stage  of  high  and  daring  deed, 
Of  mighty  plans,  of  mighty  conflict  too. 
And  to  the  combat,  armed,  the  Church  hath  come  ; 
Her  panoply  is  sure,  her  hosts  are  out, 
And  she  hath  her  munitions  gathered  up. 
Behold  them  in  the  sanctuaries,  where 
Flow  the  glad  streams  of  life.  Behold  them  strown 
Thickly  and  broadly,  in  the  Sunday-schools 
That  gem  the  prairies,  and  whose  cheerful  song 
Doth  stir  the  forest.    See  them  in  the  halls 
Of  holy  Science,  where  the  ready  youth 
Are  furnished  to  their  work,  and  issue  forth 
To  tell  of  Jesus.     Yea,  the  edifice  of  prayer, 
The  Sunday-school,  the  seminary,  tell 
That  soldiers  of  the  Cross  are  rallying  round 
Her  standard,  and  the  battle  is  begun, 
Which  ceases  not,   till  Earth's  proud  kingdoms 

have 
Become  the  kingdoms  of  the  risen  Christ. 
The  Church  is  safe  !  Devils  are  unchained  yet — 
The  stormy  world  still  heaves ;  men's  lusts  yet  rage; 
Till  sin  is  vanquished,  it  must  still  be  so. 
Ye  billows  threaten  still,  toss  ye  proud  waves, 


308  Washington's  freedmen. 

Roll  on,  impetuous  tide  !  thou  canst  not  harm 
The  Church,  that,  like  a  tower,  lifts  up  on  high 
Her  everlasting1  walls.     Built  on  the  Rock, 
She  looketh  down,  and  sees  the  troubled  surge 
Dash  idly  at  her  feet. 

Cincinnati,  December,  1832. 


WASHINGTON'S  FREEDMEN. 

A  gentleman,  lately  visiting  Mount  Vernon, 
writes  to  his  friend  that  he  was  much  gratified  to 
find  a  great  improvement  about  the  tomb  of 
Washington.  The  former  appearance  of  neglect 
and  decay  had  been  succeeded  by  a  general  repair. 
Seeing  about  a  dozen  coloured  men  at  work,  level- 
ing and  turfing  the  ground  at  the  sepulchre,  he  was 
induced,  by  the  deep  interest  with  which  they 
laboured,  to  inquire  whether  they  were  slaves  of 
the  family]  "No,"  they  said,  "we  are  General 
Washington's  servants  ;  survivors  of  those  whom 
he  set  free  at  his  death ;  and  we  have  come  as 
volunteers  to  improve  the  grounds  near  his  tomb, 
as  a  testimony  of  our  gratitude." 

We  blush  to  add,  that  the  National  Monument 
Society  at  Washington,  which  proposes  to  build 
the  monument  of  the  Father  of  his  Country  by 


Washington's  freedmex.  309 

subscriptions  of  one  dollar  from  American  citizens, 
confines  the  privilege  to  white  citizens ;  and  that 
these  freedmen  who  have  received  from  Washing- 
ton more  than  we  all,  and  whose  grateful  remem- 
brance is  thus  touchingly  exhibited,  may  not  aid 
in  the  work. — N.  Y.  Evangelist, 

We  garnish  the  grave  of  the  Chief — 

Good  men  will  not  deem  it  the  worse 
That  such  testimonial  of  grief, 

Is  gratefully  rendered  by  us : 
For  who  may  restore  this  sad  wreck, 

But  the  cleansed  from  humanity's  stain  ] 
What  hands  should  his  sepulchre  deck, 

But  those  that  he  freed  from  the  chain  1 

Toil,  brothers  ! — the  ringdove  hath  nest 

In  the  quiet  and  cool  of  this  shade ; 
To  tarry,  she  knows  herself  blest, 

Where  excellence  lowly  is  laid. 
The  small  birds  have  liberty  here, 

On  this  mountain  to  build  as  they  list ; 
And  ranges  the  beautiful  deer 

Where  its  base  by  Potomac  is  kissed. 

Prune,  brothers  !  these  cedars,  that  bend 
In  negligence  over  his  tomb  ; 


310  Washington's  freedmen. 

Teach,  brothers  !  these  lilacs  to  lend 
New  beauties  and  richer  perfume. 

Let  us  trim  the  luxuriant  grass, 

Which  carpets  the  place  of  his  dust ; 

That  pilgrims  may  pleasantly  pass 
To  the  coveted  shrine  of  the  First. 

These  bowers,  what  thousands  have  sought ! 

These  windings,  what  thousands  shall  throng! 
Down  the  future,  what  bards  will  have  caught 

Here  afflatus  for  glorious  song ! 
Yet  this,  the  exalted  of  graves, 

Above  other  sepulchres  crowned, 
Is  seen  in  the  precincts  of  slaves — 

In  the  strong  hold  of  bondage  is  found  ! 

The  rich  for  his  pile  will  bestow, 

Whose  glory  makes  diadems  dim  ; 
Yet  we  may  not  do  it,  although 

Our  love  flows  as  warmly  for  him. 
Will  he  look  down  from  heaven,  to  smile 

On  marble  that's  heaped  o'er  his  grave, 
By  men  that  would  honour  him,  while 

They  make  of  their  fellow  a  slave  ? 

The  stones  of  the  quarry  would  cry 
To  the  rock  upon  which  it  was  built ; 


Washington's  freedmen.  311 

And  The  Just,  who  has  noticed  the  sigh 
Of  the  captive,  would  visit  their  guilt. 

A  monument  reared  up  by  such, 
His  frowning  memorial  would  be 

Of  righteous  displeasure,  who  much 
Desireth  the  bond  to  be  free. 

'Twould  stand,  to  the  nations  a  mark 

Of  scorning  and  hissing  of  those 
Who  prate  about  Liberty's  spark, 

And  yet  to  its  kindlings  are  foes. 
A  terrible  record  of  Truth — 

'Twould  point,  as  with  finger  of  flame ; 
And  its  characters  blazing  his  worth, 

Would  light  down  to  ages  their  shame ! 

But  no  !  they  may  chisel  the  stones, 

And  for  its  foundations  dig  deep, 
That  Centuries  might  pause  where  the  bones 

Of  the  world's  only  patriot  sleep  ; 
They  may  do  it — but  never  shall  rise 

Such  fruit  of  hypocrisy's  toil ; 
His  monument  greets  not  the  skies, 

'Till  slavery  is  swept  from  our  soil ! 

The  millions  for  Cecrops  that  toiled, 
And  sank  on  the  marshes  of  Nile, 

In  their  folly,  stupendous,  were  foiled, 
Though  carved  they  Eternity's  pile. 


312  SUNDAY-SCHOOLS  IN  THE  WEST. 

The  millions  that  rear  up,  this  hour, 
Our  citadel,  build  not  in  vain  : — 

'Tis  rising !  and  proudly  will  tower, 
When  pyramids  litter  the  plain. 

Toil,  brothers  !  to  garnish  the  spot 

Of  Freedom's,  of  Washington's  sleep ; 
Where  Virtue  may  ponder,  but  not 

Where  Crime  may  in  mockery  weep. 
The  labour  we  freely  bestow, 

— To  buy  it,  too  poor  were  a  throne — 
To  him  that  has  left  us,  we  know 

Is  sweet,  for  'tis  Gratitude  own. 


SUNDAY-SCHOOLS  IN  THE  WEST. 

He  came  to  drink  his  bitter  cup, 
And  men  accorded  not  acclaim ; 

Yet  from  young  lips  a  shout  went  up, 
That  put  the  frowning  priest  to  shame. 

Beyond  the  skill  to  Levite  known 

When  trump  to  answering  cymbal  calls, 

Was  that  rich  swell  of  touching  tone 
Which  met  the  God  within  his  halls. 


SUNDAY-SCHOOLS  IN  THE  WEST.  31 3 

Since  then,  in  deep  forgetfulness, 

The  harp  of  Infancy  had  lain, 
Till  Sunday-schools  were  sent  to  bless, 

And  bid  its  lispings  live  again. 

To  this  dark  world  'twas  gladdening  hour 
When  voices  that  had  slumbered  long, 

In  all  the  charms  of  Childhood's  power 
Woke  up  to  holiness  and  song. 

Right  well  'twas  then,  to  mark  the  boy 
Still  tending  skyward,  led  by  love, 

And  warbling,  as  he  journeyed,  "  Thou  ! 
My  Father — art  my  guide  above." 

And  cheeks,  where  rioted  the  curl, 
To  see  suffused  with  tears  for  sin ; 

And  holy  smiles,  by  which  that  girl 
Revealed  the  quiet  peace  within ! 

Of  gifts  from  man,  was  his  the  best 
In  yonder  isle,  whose  patient  prayer 

Brought,  dews  upon  that  vine  to  rest, 

And  England's  thousands  sheltered  there. 

And  glowing  to  Columbia's  weal 
Was  he  that  bare  across  the  wave 

The  tree,  whose  leaves  refresh  and  heal, 
Whose  branches  bourgeon  on  the  grave. 


314  SUNDAY-SCHOOLS  IN  THE  WEST. 

Shall  not  to  him — the  noble  one — 

Be  ever  truest  tribute  paid, 
Who  gave  its  blossoms  to  our  sun, 

To  cheer  us  with  its  balm  and  shade  1 — 

And  led  our  little  ones  among 

Its  bowers,  safe  from  wanderings, 

As  watchful  shepherds  win  their  young 
To  verdant  vales  and  silvery  springs  ] 

Yes,  and  to  those  whose  beaming  eyes 
Have  lately  looked  upon  the  West, 

And  said,  beneath  its  pleasant  skies 
This  plant  shall  shield  the  grief  oppressed- 

And  tower  above  the  lordly  pine, 

And  fling  its  fragrance  round  the  land, 

From  Alleghany's  wilds,  to  where 
Pacific's  billows  kiss  the  strand, — 

Be  thanks  : — yet  rather  righteous  Lord  ! 

From  thee  it  comes,  to  thee  they're  given ; 
And  Thou  wilt  send  the  searching  word 

That  saves,  restores,  and  lifts  to  Heaven. 

Valley  of  the  Mississippi,  August,  1830. 


BOOKS  IN  HEAVEN.  315 


BOOKS   IN  HEAVEN. 

Chained  to  his  throne  a  volume  lies.— Dr.  Watts. 

In  Heaven  the  happy  may  for  ever  gaze 
On  the  unsealed  page  of  Providence, 
Whose  glowing  characters  shall  well  reward 
Attentive  search.    What  things  to  flesh  were  shut 
Shall  be  to  spirit  opened.     They  shall  learn 
The  scope  of  what  was  mystery  before, 
And  learning,  shall  wake  newer  songs  to  Him, 
The  Adorable.     Nor  shall  they  need  the  aid 
Of  earthly  lore,  nor  thirst  for  knowledge,  drank 
When  tabernacled  here. 

Yet  if  to  them 
Some  relic  might  remain  of  what  once  pleased; 
If  there  were  Books  in  Heaven,  whereon  the  eyes 
Of  Holy  ones  might  rest,  at  times,  when  harp 
And  hymn  were  silent — If  from  those  retired, 
Awhile,  who  worship  ever  near  the  throne, 
Some  spiritual  beings  might  retrace  the  page 
In  glory,  which  they  loved  on  earth  below — 
Doubtless  the  record  that  would  fix  their  gaze 
W^ould  be  concerning  Him,  the  Crucified. — 


316 


SUICIDE  OF  A  STATESMAN. 


And  they  would  read  with  ever  new  delight, 

While  their  glad  glance  oft  rested  on  Him — read 

With  love,  intense,  of  all  his  painful  toils, 

His  days  of  weariness  and  nights  of  pain, 

Wlio  trod  Jerusalem,  so  long  ago, 

In  bitter  pilgrimage  for  sin.     The  Book 

Of  Heaven  would  be  the  Bible. 

If  from  wreck 
Of  mighty  treasures  of  the  melted  earth, 
Gathered  for  ages,  gathered  for  the  fires 
Of  the  last  day — one  other  book  were  spared, 
To  please  the  intellect  and  feast  the  mind, 
Immortal,  happy,  yet  still  eager  mind, — 
A  book  to  be  at  times  companion  sought 
In  heaven — I  think  it  would  be  Paradise  Lost. 


SUICIDE  OF  A  STATESMAN. 

O,  what  is  that  the  world  calls  fame  ] 
And  what  the  phantom  Glory  1 

Why  pants  the  votary  for  a  name 
To  live  renowned  in  story  ? 

Mistaken  he  that  climbs  the  steep, 
The  precipice  unheeding, 


SUICIDE  OF  A  STATESMAN.  317 

He  gains  the  height — it  is  to  weep  ; 
He  smiles — his  heart  is  bleeding. 

But  late  the  strain  of  pleasure  rose, 

His  mansion  echoed  gladness  ; 
His  heart  seemed  pillowed  on  repose, — 

'Twas  bursting,  e'en  to  madness  ! 

Yea,  false  Ambition  !   'twas  thy  slave, 

On  thy  accursed  altar, 
Dared  the  Omnipotent  to  brave, 

With  deed  that  bids  us  falter. 

Go,  son  of  poverty!  rejoice 

— Thy  bosom  whelmed  with  sorrow. — 
Though  care  be  thine  this  day,  the  voice 

Of  hope  shall  cheer  the  morrow. 

Though  tossed  thy  barque,  though  in  distress 

Thou  rid' st  the  angry  billow, 
Rejoice  !  rejoice  !  thou  dost  not  press 

The  Suicide's  cold  pillow. 

182-2. 


318  VERSES. 


VERSES, 

Occasioned  by  the  imprisonment  of  a  Clergyman, 
at  the  suit  of  a  Rum-distilling  Deacon,  for  writing 
against  Intemperance ;  a  fact  of  the  Nineteenth 
Century. 

They've  thrust  him  in  the  inner  cell, 

And  planted  bolt  and  bar 
On  him  thus  basely  made  to  dwell 

Where  thieves  and  drunkards  are. 
And  those  that  quailed  beneath  his  eye, 

And  at  his  word  did  cower, 
Have  left  the  greatness  there  to  lie, 

Which  shamed  their  petty  power. 

The  jail  receives  him,  whose  behest 

It  is,  with  tongue  of  flame, 
To  urge  repentance,  and  attest 

The  charms  of  Jesus'  name. 
The  jail  receives  him,  who  should  teach, 

In  voice  of  winning  love, 
The  sunken  how  to  rise  and  reach 

The  paradise  above. 


319 


The  meek  disciple  who  at  times 

Takes  of  the  Saviour's  cup — 
And  then  the  chalice,  drugged  with  crimes, 

Compels  men  to  drink  up, — 
Yea,  he  whose  hateful,  poisonous  trade, 

Has  by  the  help  of  hell, 
A  thousand  thousand  paupers  made, 

In  cedar  halls  doth  dwell ! 

Ay,  bring  him  thence ! — the  Christian,  now,- 

Of  all  that's  manly  shorn, — 
That  deeply  on  his  guilty  brow, 

The  world  may  write  its  scorn,— 
And  mark  with  infamy,  the  soul 

That's  monument  alone 
Of  meanness,  lasting  as  the  scroll 

Of  brass,  or  senseless  stone. 

If  e'er  was  one  whose  deeds  on  earth 

Are  food  for  fiendish  wit, — 
Whose  deeper  baseness  stirs  the  mirth 

And  loathing  of  the  pit, — 
The  Judas  that  makes  haste  to  fill 

His  bag  by  misery, 
And  fasts,  and  prays,  and  drives  the  Still, — 

That  hypocrite  is  he  ! 
1835. 


320  SARATOGA. 


SARATOGA. 

Here  the  foemen,  in  conflict,  once  met, 

Here  Freemen  their  weapons  did  draw ; 
On  the  plains  which  their  life  crimson  wet, 
The  heroes  have  rushed  to  the  war. 
Saw  ye  not  the  proud  banneret,  gory  1 
The  flag  of  the  patriot  free — 
The  meteor  exhaling  to  glory  1 
It  shone,  Saratoga  !  on  thee. 

'Twas  the  hour  when  dimly  the  star 
Of  America,  glimmered  on  night, 
When  the  death  drum,  and  bugle,  afar, 
Called  the  chieftain  away  to  the  fight. 
The  links  of  curst  thraldom  to  sever, 
The  Champions  of  Freedom  arose — 
'Till  oppression  was  scattered,  should  never 
The  sword  in  its  scabbard  repose. 

With  devotion  the  traveller  here, 
O'er  the  relics  of  valour  doth  tread ; 

He  gives  to  their  prowess  the  tear, 
It  moistens  the  place  of  the  dead. 


ACTS  III.  3-21 

Revered  be  the  incense — 'tis  holy  ! 
Ever  green  be  the  Warrior's  grave; 
Columbia!  cherish  the  glory, 
That  haloes  the  deeds  of  the  Brave. 
1820. 


ACTS  III. 

He  lay  beside  the  temple's  orate, 

Beside  the  Beautiful  he  lay, 
The  lame  man,  for  an  alms  to  wait 

From  those  who  passed  that  way. 

Gold  to  his  need  was  given,  yet  vain 
Was  it  he  looked  for  healing  aid ; 

And  still  the  morning  saw  again 
Him  at  that  portal  laid. 

Till  the  Apostles  thither  came  ; — 

And  wherefore  came  these  bold  ones  there? 
To  seek  in  the  Redeemer's  name, 

The  fellowship  of  prayer. 

1  Rise  up  and  walk,'  they  said  ;  and  healed, 
The  lame  man  leaped  and  walked  abroad  ; 
x 


322  MY  GRAVE. 

For  in  that  mandate  was  revealed 
Power  from  the  Son  of  God. 

Thus  have  I  lain,  and  at  the  door, 
Thus  asked  vain  alms  of  all  beside ; 

Repenting,  I'll  His  aid  implore, 
Who  for  my  sin  hath  died. 

And  oh,  upon  my  waiting  ear, 

What  mellow  music  seems  to  roll ; 

My  spirit,  whither  flies  thy  fear, 
When  Jesus  says,  4  Be  whole!' 


MY  GRAVE. 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclintd, 
Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee. 

The  Grave,  by  Montgomery. 

When  I  am  dead,  O  bear  me  not 

To  rest  within  the  hollow  tomb  ; 
But  rather  to  some  peaceful  spot, 

Where  earliest  flowers  of  Summer  bloom  : 
And  not  in  yonder  crowded  cell, 

My  flesh  with  broken  coffins  lay, — 
Where  shadows  of  oblivion  dwell, 

And  sullen  silence  wraps  the  clay. 


MY  GRAVE.  323 

I  would  not  that  my  wasted  dust, 

Years  hence,  unfeeling  eyes  should  scan ; 
To  mark  the  ravages  that  must 

Bring  down  the  form  and  pride  of  man. 
Nor  would  I  that  some  busy  friend, 

With  curious  eye,  should  in  me  trace 
The  meanings  that  Decay  doth  lend 

So  fearful,  to  the  altered  face. 

I  know  that  to  the  wearied  bones 

It  matters  nothing  where  they  lie ; 
Whether  beneath  the  vaulted  stones, 

Or  grass  that  bends  to  Evening's  sigh ; 
Or  whether  round  them  drips  the  wall, 

In  greenness  and  sepulchral  damp, — 
The  thoughts  of  these  are  idle  all, 

WThen  blotted  out  is  Being's  lamp. 

When  blotted  out  are  we  from  earth, — 

The  chasm  made,  so  soon  filled  up ; 
When  others  sit  around  our  hearth, 

And  drink  of  our  relinquished  cup  ; 
When  cold  and  senseless  sleep  we  on, 

Though  nations  totter  to  their  fall ; 
And  calmly  rest  while  worlds  are  won, 

Unheeding  strife, — forgot  by  all. 


324  MY  GRAVE. 

It  matters  nothing, — yet  it  seems 

Unpleasant  fellowship,  to  be 
Shut  up  with  things,  that  in  their  dreams 

Of  terror,  men  may  only  see : 
The  livid  company  that  sleep 

Within  that  chamber  of  the  dead  ! 
The  solemn  tenantry  that  keep 

Their  mansion,  to  corruption  wed ! 

Away  ! — away  !    I  would  not  shun 

The  welcome  summons  to  the  grave ; 
If  faith  be  kept  and  warfare  done, 

Not  sweeter  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Than  death  to  me, — yet  I  would  fain 

Lie  down  in  some  secluded  dell ; 
There,  till  by  trumpet  called  again, 

On  mother  Earth  to  slumber  well. 


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